Bird's Eye View
by Aki1
Summary: AU // In 1977 L.L. traded his Geass for immortality at the age of 18. Forty years later he would meet a young Japanese soldier whose lofty dream was to change an Empire from within. "Together, you and I can accomplish *anything*." // slash, LuluSuzu
1. Stage 01: Pilot

Disclaimer: _Code Geass_ – with its characters, settings, and all other borrowed elements here – is the sole property of its creators. I do this purely for my own entertainment, and (hopefully) that of my readers as well.

Opening lines of this chapter are taken from _Blackbird_, a song by the Beatles.

Author's Note: I'll keep this short and sweet for now, and save the details for later: this fic is an AU, set to run parallel to the anime, based on the premise of Lelouch being born decades earlier and acquiring C.C.'s Code at the age of 18; after some time he meets Suzaku, and is drawn to him because he has the potential to receive Geass.

To sum up: _C.C. is/was to Lelouch as L.L. is now to Suzaku._

Ready? Let's go.

Warnings for this chapter: Language and (mild) violence. The fic's overall 'M' rating is just so that I don't have to switch it in the future when the M-rated content finally comes in (more on this later).

Enjoy!

* * *

_Japan, 1977 a.t.b._

He fulfilled his promise to her in a field of sunflowers.

There were so many of them – hundreds, smiling towards the sky in the high noon – that he didn't even notice the witch's arrival until she was standing right in front of him.

"Heading to the country, I see?" he said wryly, noting her unusual attire.

"Probably. The cities have become a bit too crowded for my liking. But who knows." She shrugged, offering a wily smirk. "I'll go wherever I please. I am C.C., after all."

He smiled as she strode purposefully closer. He was a man of his word, but...a part of him would miss the power of the King. It had provided him with much entertainment these past five years, and he couldn't help but wonder how things might have changed if C.C. had offered it to him when he was older, not at thirteen and with such simple-minded goals in sight. By the time he realized just _how much _potential this power had, the Geass had spread to both eyes, and he had lost control of it completely.

It was a pity, he thought as he removed his contacts for the last time. Perhaps, had he bided his time and played his cards right, he could have done so much more. But all things considered, he was quite content with the way things turned out. And now...

"Is it going to hurt?" he asked.

"Don't tell me you'll go back on your word if it does, _boya_."

"Ah. So it will, then." He smiled again as her fingers crept hesitantly up his back. He wondered if, years or decades or centuries from now, he would still remember this moment – the flowers, the Japanese summer heat, the ribbons in her hair and her honey-hued eyes meeting his gaze with its usual blend of mischief and wondering.

"Where do you want it?" she finally asked, and he replied by returning the platonic embrace with more warmth than he could have thought possible. Fingers were lost in silken strands of green as he gently pressed her forehead against his shoulder.

He fulfilled his promise to her in a field of sunflowers.

* * *

**.**

_Blackbird singing in the dead of night_

_Take these broken wings and learn to fly_

_All your life_

_You were only waiting for this moment to arise_

_Blackbird fly, blackbird fly_

_Into the light of the dark black night_

**.**

**Bird's-Eye View**

Stage 01

**. : Pilot : .**

_Area 11, 2017 a.t.b._

There was too much noise, the young soldier thought as he eased himself into the seat at the center of the cockpit. All around him little things beeped and whirred, and colorful lights dotted shiny instrument panels as they slowly came to life.

_'Man-machine interface established,' _a familiar, mechanical voice announced coldly from the speakers. _'Confirming entry of subject 404 into RPI-13 Sutherland.'_

He liked Sutherlands, he had decided long ago. Well, perhaps 'like' was going a bit too far, but he certainly didn't _hate _them, and all things considered the seven-tonne machines agreed with him. They were easy to maneuver, did not require any particularly complex techniques, and were more resilient to bullets and shrapnel than their predecessors. And, perhaps the most important point: they were _not_ the Knightmares Britannia had sent in swarms during the invasion of his homeland, seven years ago.

But there was no time to dwell on that last point – there never was, really. He shook his head as he punched his ID number into a small, waiting touch-screen off to the side. The pause that followed was longer than it should have been, but he let out a breath he did not realize he had been holding when a sharp crackle was followed by the gruff voice of a lieutenant.

"Intelligence has confirmed that terrorists collaborating with the JLF have somehow obtained several Knightmares from a hijacked cargo train. Private, your orders are to destroy all enemy forces while keeping Britannian casualties and damage to your unit at the minimum. All other collateral damage is inconsequential."

It was a standard closing note and had been worded carefully, but everyone knew what that last sentence meant.

'Inconsequential.' _If it's just an Eleven, fire at will._

"Are these orders clear, Private?"

The officer's voice had risen dangerously at his silence. And so today the soldier forced himself to swallow back those thoughts as he gave an unseen salute out of sheer reflex.

"Yes, my lord," he replied, and his own words tasted so bitter he could barely suppress a wince.

But none of this mattered when he finally received the green-light to launch. Racing along an abandoned highway shoulder, his hands were steady but firm on the controllers as his eyes flickered from screen to panel and back again.

He knew it was ironic, but somehow it was in moments like this – sitting in a cramped cockpit and swallowed whole by tonnes of metal – that he felt the most free.

When he was within five hundred meters of the coordinates that had been relayed to him, he saw the enemy Knightmares. Sutherlands as well, there were two, three..._four_ of them, as reported by a small screen displaying data from his factsphere sensors in continuous streams. This was interesting, he thought, because he'd never fought this many before – at least, not all at once. He highly doubted they would come at him one at a time, a surmise proven correct when they all charged toward him in a synchronized attack.

Some time ago he had learned that even Sutherlands were capable of dodging rapid fire if you pushed them hard enough. He took full advantage of this fact as the onslaught of slash harkens and bullets began, but he was careful not to leave any of the fleeing, screaming civilians in the line of fire.

The soldier already knew what his superiors wanted him to do. He had three chaos mines at his disposal, and with the enemy Sutherlands localized here, he would only need one to finish the job. But right now he was in the heart of the Saitama ghetto, and while he knew it didn't matter to_ them_ if he played this card and killed every living thing within its blast radius – after all, no Britannian would be caught dead in slums like these – his mind raced to find an alternative.

Because he didn't become a soldier in order to murder innocent people; he was in the military because long ago, he had decided to...

He shook his head again, furiously this time, to clear it of those distracting thoughts. There were no open fields or anything even remotely resembling one nearby; he would have to do this the hard way.

He had never actually used a chaos mine before, but he did recall that – in theory – to prepare, launch, activate, and expend one would take roughly forty-five seconds. In order to have an excuse _not _to use a chaos mine, then, he needed to either match that time or do even better, and he let out a groan of frustration through his teeth as he realized he had probably wasted a third of that time dilly-dallying like this from the moment he could have first deployed it. So he had four enemy Sutherlands to contend with, and thirty seconds left to do it. Was that even possible?

Grinning despite himself he punched in a manual countdown on the screen below his energy monitor. There was only one way to find out.

His fingers found the lever beside the left controller and yanked it all the way forward, without mercy. Dimly he could hear the landspinners whining in protest at the abuse as his Sutherland shot forward, and within seconds he had traced a wide arc around the enemies to end up behind them. Three keystrokes on a panel later he was granted access to the controls of his machine's assault rifle; a barrage of bullets aimed at the legs quickly forced two enemy pilots to eject. (Twenty seconds.)

He didn't need the elaborate tracking program he had at his fingertips; he could see the harkens as they came from meters away. A couple of carefully aimed bursts deflected the heads and he charged forward at their source. It seemed as though his hands were moving faster than his mind – left pulled down, right pivoting completely at the wrist – and he kept his eyes on the line of the ground as his Knightmare ducked and spun with a low kick that swept an enemy machine off its feet. The cockpit disengaged and blasted off, its ruined frame collapsed in a heap of useless metal. (Twelve seconds.)

He whirled around to place the last enemy, only to have his rifle swatted out of his hands by a slash harken. Gritting his teeth he pushed the landspinners to their limit once more and closed the distance between the two Knightmares in a heartbeat.

Alarms blared the moment they collided, and the impact rocked the cockpit's interior. He overrode all the warning codes with one hand and used the other to fire both of his harkens; the heads shot forward and buried themselves into the faraway wall of a condemned building. (Eight seconds.)

For a brief moment he worried about his landspinners when he ordered full speed yet again. At the same time he pressed the buttons to retract the harkens, but the heads held fast to the concrete and this only added to the speed as his machine lurched forward, eating the cables. (Seven seconds.)

Perhaps realizing that his only other option was to be crushed between Knightmare and wall, the last enemy pilot ejected right at the four-second mark.

The soldier leaned back into the seat, smiling slightly as he slowed his Sutherland to a stop. When the countdown finally hit zero, he was watching a parachute drift lazily to the ground from hundreds of meters away.

Mission accomplished.

He knew he should feel proud of himself, and if this were _any other situation_ he might have, really. But as it was, now came the part he hated the most about exercises like these: he shut his eyes with a sigh once the backdrop of the Saitama ghetto started to blur, and the walls of the cockpit around him began to dissolve.

As he willed the rush of adrenaline away, he didn't know whether to thank or curse the programmers who designed simulators like these – everything, from the dilapidated buildings to the cracks in the roads to the clothes of running civilians seemed so _real_. It was alarmingly easy to get lost in that world, where he piloted a Knightmare and was _somebody_, as opposed to being a mere –

"404!" An impatient voice shattered into his thoughts. "Your simulation results."

Gingerly he removed the metal helmet and visor, careful not to get tangled in all the wires and other such contraptions that were attached, and placed it on the replica of an instrument panel in front of him. Every Britannian in the room was glaring daggers at his back, but he kept his own gaze nailed dutifully onto the floor as he jogged toward the sergeant at the front of the room. The latter had just taken the printout from the machine, and his eyes were narrowed as he read the contents aloud.

"Suzaku Kururugi" – his expression did not waver anymore, not even a bit whenever Britannians blatantly mispronounced his name – "Total operation time, one minute and forty-seven seconds. Damage to Knightmare, zero per cent. Britannian casualties, zero. All other casualties, zero. Efficiency rating..." If possible, the man's eyes narrowed even further, and his voice was tight as he seethed the rest: "Efficiency rating, one hundred per cent."

He was supposed to feel happy. Really, he was. But he did not know what to call the emotion he felt when he accepted the paper with a wordless nod, and he heard the vicious whispers among his colleagues, the backhanded kudos from his superiors.

"Show-off."

"Not bad for an Eleven, _Private_."

"He's all that in simulations, but I'd like to see how he does with a _real_ Knightmare."

"Well it's too bad. An Eleven can't possibly become a knight."

Suzaku bore this all with stoic acceptance as he marched to the exit. At the very least, it wasn't as hard as he remembered it to be. Because he was used to this treatment by now. Because even if his peers were cruel and resentful and needlessly vicious, all things considered they were _right_.

(Because the Holy Empire of Britannia had conquered Japan, dubbed its citizens Elevens. And it was a simple fact that Elevens – like himself – were just not meant to sit behind the controls of Britannia's prized war machines.)

He sighed again, slumping against the wall and rubbing his eyes as soon as he was out of that room. One hundred per cent efficiency rating in a Sutherland and nobody cared, not even himself.

Sometimes he couldn't remember why even bothered to keep coming back here. Maybe he still clung to the hope that one day it would be different, that one day he would be able to see the inside of a real cockpit and actually take a Knightmare out to battle. Or maybe a part of him had decided long ago that those borrowed moments of _freedom,_ although artificial and fleeting, were worth all the disappointment and humiliation that invariably followed.

Or maybe, something much darker inside him seemed to suggest, this was punishment. Just like everything else, and just like he deserved.

_Because seven years ago, when the crickets were noisy and the night was clear, a ten-year-old boy stepped into his father's study – _

Suzaku pushed himself away from the wall with an involuntary jerk.

It didn't matter, he finally convinced himself as he made his way to the barracks. It didn't matter because for whatever reason, tomorrow he would be back here again, hoping – as he always did – that it would hurt a bit less when the illusion ended.

* * *

And while all this was happening, a truck driver blared his horn at the slow schoolboy-driven bike in front of his vehicle.

The redhead sitting in the passenger's seat warned him to just let it be, but he was on edge. And he knew _she_ was too; anyone would be, with a fake uniform, a forged license, and a stolen canister of poison gas in the trailer.

So when the boy failed to speed up in time, he steered sharply to the side, intending to pass him. But he ended up overshooting and instead veered completely off the freeway.

It was quite the spectacular crash.

* * *

The last piece he moved was a bishop, crossing the long diagonal and sealing his opponent's defeat.

"Checkmate," he declared then, and his voice was much softer than that of the nobleman before him when the latter began sputtering.

The cycle was always the same: first came shock. Then there was denial (where did the bishop come from, and was that knight _reall__y _on that square?) quickly followed by begrudging acceptance as L.L. shot down each of his protests with cool precision. Eventually realizing his was a lost cause, the nobleman's shoulders slumped in defeat. "Whose name shall I make it out to?" he finally asked, preparing his cheque book.

L.L. shook his head firmly. "We've discussed this. Cash only, please."

The man winced. "Ah, of course."

Even if they groveled and were generally sore losers, what was nice about playing nobles was that they always forked over what they owed in the end. He thumbed quickly through the wad of fifty-pound notes, satisfied at the amount, and tucked it unceremoniously into an inside pocket of his jacket.

"It has been a pleasure," L.L. announced with a practiced smile. He stood up and gracefully offered a handshake, but he was unsurprised to have it rebuffed. Sore losers, indeed.

Without further ado he stuffed his hands into his pockets and left the room. His feet sank partly into the lush carpet with every step as he walked along the hallway. There, glass windows lined one side of the corridor from floor to ceiling, and he gave the proffered scenery a passing glance: Britannian shops, Britannian restaurants, and Britannian vehicles filled his line of vision.

He felt a scowl etch itself onto his face when he remembered that he _wasn't _in Britannia; he was in _Tokyo_, and it hadn't always been like this.

Although L.L. was Britannian-born and bred, he felt no pride in this fact and held no attachment whatsoever to his homeland. As a teenager he had already seen the Empire's corruption, its zeal for power as it conquered country after country and replaced nationalities with numbers. He had seen through the shameless propaganda – Britannia was doing this for justice, Britannia was sharing her glory with the less fortunate nations, Britannia was a friend to all – and it was an insult to his intelligence, even then.

In fact, perhaps the only good thing that came out of his living in Britannia was that he met C.C. there. And for five years he enjoyed his Geass thoroughly, because if for nothing else it would usually take his mind off the gradually worsening injustices and cruelties his homeland committed in the name of glory. But at the end of the day the fact still remained: Britannia disgusted him, and he wanted nothing to do with an Empire that had the gall to believe itself the center of the world.

C.C. was well aware of his displeasure the whole time. He still recalled what she said to him one night, smirking through a mouthful of mozzarella: "You only have two options. Either do something about it, or leave."

Back then the choice was easy to make. And so the day he turned eighteen, finally old enough to leave his stepfather's household without questions, he took C.C. with him and used his Geass on the pilot of a Viscount's private jet: _"I command you to take us to a country unsullied by Britannia's egotism."_

That was how they ended up in Japan.

He saw the difference right away; finally he understood how citizens of a free nation celebrated its culture and traditions, but not in the aggressive way Britannia forced its own upon others. The people worked hard, made a huge deal of showing respect to one another, and embraced democracy – everyone had a voice, everyone mattered.

Gradually, as the snow gave way to cherry blossoms which in turn opened to sun-kissed meadows, he found himself growing fond of this country. Although learning the language and eventually getting settled took time, this didn't bother him; he had all the time in the world. And so L.L. had decided then that he would stay here, that he did not miss Britannia and her endless conquests.

But thirty-three years later, Britannia – and war – came to _him_.

And now he was trapped in a country that may as well have been a carbon copy of Britannia. Paper doors had been replaced with wood, intricate characters with Britannian script, rice and _sake _with potatoes and scotch. He hardly ever saw any Japanese – no, Elevens – anymore, the country's own people being displaced from the cities and pushed into the rural areas, or (worse) the ghettoes. In retrospect, he realized that the choice he had made before, the choice to _escape_, was a foolish one. But there was no way he could have known Britannia would succeed in subjugating Japan, no way he could have predicted the groundbreaking technology that would make it possible.

So he would continue on with the path he forged long ago. He had been setting aside money from his gambling for years now, and once he reached his target he planned to take the first flight to Australia, perhaps the only neutral country remaining on the globe.

It was just too bad, L.L. thought as he gave the Eleven vacuuming the hallway a generous tip. He was treated very well here, but that was only because he was a Britannian. He supposed he should miss this country, but with the way things were going he could barely even recognize it anymore.

"Going down?"

"Yes, please."

The elevator doors rolled shut, and he found himself staring at his reflection tinted gold by the polish.

This was another reason he had to leave, or at least, could not stay in any one place for more than a few years: time had frozen when he took C.C.'s Code, and he would be forever eighteen. Several people – regular patrons of the gambling den, employees at the hotel he stayed in – had begun making comments, and while he laughed them off with schooled nonchalance and invoked everything from good genes to green tea, he knew this was a warning flag not to be ignored.

L.L. muted a sigh. Things had been so much easier before the Code. As he gazed at the youthful countenance that would be his for eternity, he realized he had forgotten how his irises looked like when they were tinged red instead of violet, when they once framed a sigil that was no longer quite there.

He shook his head. No, he could not remain here even if he wanted to, he mused as the doors parted once more.

He stepped into the ground-floor lobby, waving discreetly at the concierge there. The man had asked for his name exactly _once_, when he first came to this place looking for easy money. A hefty, well-placed tip had been his answer, and the question was never asked again.

"Leaving early today?"

"I promised this girl I'd attend a concert with her," he lied smoothly. "And I hate to say it, but my opponents have not been quite thrilling lately."

"It's called too much of a good thing. Why not try the slot machines once in a while?" the concierge suggested good-naturedly. "Or the craps tables? Just for a change of scenery."

L.L. shook his head. "I'm not fond of games wherein the outcome is influenced too heavily by luck."

He was rewarded with a chuckle. "Whatever suits you, then. Have a good one."

The very moment he stepped outside the building, he saw the commotion.

It was hard to miss; pedestrians flooded the sidewalks and traffic slowed to a crawl near the scene as curious drivers rolled down their windows to catch a glimpse. It took a while before he finally saw it for himself, but what piqued his interest the most _wasn't _how the truck had crashed and was now stalled on a construction site; rather, he wondered about the measured distance between it and the front line of onlookers, despite the lack of police tape or cones.

"Shouldn't we do something?" he heard a voice ask. He made his way gingerly through the crowd, and as he did so his mind was already busy rattling off possible answers to his question: the potential danger, perhaps, dissuaded them from approaching, or maybe someone had already called for help.

"_Should_ we? They say the driver's just an Eleven..."

His thoughts darkened immediately. So _that _was what this was all about.

Throwing the offending bystanders a withering glance, L.L. doubled his efforts and eventually broke through the crowd of mere spectators.

And in a few seconds he was running clear across the concrete toward the truck; he ignored the protests from the throng and focused instead on the growing list of scenarios in his brain, and how he could help these people in each one.

* * *

It was not every day that the Viceroy of Area 11 had to deliver a nationwide address in the middle of a grand banquet. But Clovis la Britannia was well-versed enough in all the little quirks of politics to put on a convincing show.

He stared straight at the main camera while clutching his heart, his face contorted in agony as he mourned the eight (were there eight? He couldn't be bothered to remember) Britannian casualties in the latest wave of counter-terrorism in Osaka. His voice was loud and earnest as he entreated the Elevens in this Area for cooperation, but his mind was lost in other, vastly more important matters (that the baroness's peacock-blue gown was horrendous, and perhaps he should order more wine.)

This was shaping up to be a very atypical day, indeed, as no sooner had he accepted compliments from the ladies on his spontaneity than a high-ranking military official in full uniform had rushed to his side, quietly informing him of a top-level security breach.

"Poison gas, you say?"

"Yes, your Highness."

Clovis waved a hand. "Send aerial units to chase down the truck. Report to your superior when it's apprehended," he said, all the while scouring the ballroom for the daughter of the duke who had wanted his advice on something or – ah, there she was.

He was just finishing up his little chat with the charming young lady when he was approached by the same officer again. The man seemed understandably agitated as he informed the prince of an _unexpected_ development in the situation.

"Then have Lord Gottwald or somebody take care of it. An old model like that shouldn't stand a chance," was his order then.

"Yes, your Highness."

It was on the third interruption that he finally lost his patience: "Send a squadron of foot soldiers to manually search those subway tunnels. Honestly, I don't quite understand why you feel the need to report every little detail in this silly little matter directly to _me._"

The officer was a big man, hard lines of muscle and bone etched onto his sturdy frame, and thus it was a comical sight to see him flush. "But, your Highness, the foot soldiers we have stationed here are Honorary Britannians..._Elevens_, your Highness, and if the matter were...if we certainly are dealing with Eleven terrorists – "

The man had a valid argument, but at this point Clovis decided that he'd had about enough of this nonsense. "Then dispatch the Royal Guard to keep them in check. Tell them the order came directly from me."

"Yes, your Highness!"

The irritation on the prince's face melted smoothly into cheerfulness as the man finally disappeared from his sight.

He would not see him again until after the party had ended.

* * *

L.L. sat on the cold metal floor of the moving trailer, ignoring the bumps and jerks beneath him as he assessed his situation.

He'd seen no convenient way to get to either the driver or the passenger, so he had climbed a ladder along the side of the trailer hoping to find another way in. He had just stepped on the very top rung when the truck began to move, and before he could react the sudden lurch had thrown him off-balance and into the trailer. That was about half an hour ago.

Within five minutes of that he learned – from a crackled order to surrender given from faraway loudspeakers, harsh against the propeller of what he thought to be military choppers – that he had managed to trap himself in a trailer containing a stolen chemical weapon of sorts. That, and the fact that the two other occupants of the truck were apparently Eleven terrorists who were now being pursued by the Britannian military.

Then, just as he managed to wrap his head around the circumstances, a young woman with short red hair entered the trailer, throwing off the uniform jacket and walking with a fierce kind of determination in her stride. He had hidden himself behind a fold of the tarp draped over some large device – at this point, he did not have to guess what that said device was – and was able to watch as the doors opened and an old red Glasgow destroyed one helicopter with a slash harken. That was around twenty minutes ago.

The woman and the Glasgow had disembarked, leaving the doors to slam shut from the momentum as the driver made an extremely sharp turn. From the vibrations on the floor and the relative darkness through the cracks lining the hinges, he deduced that the truck had most probably entered the subway system.

The only noteworthy event that followed after that was when the driver thought to radio for a rendezvous with his accomplices. " ...Subway tunnel...not injured, I'm...hide the truck...Glasgow..." was all he made out, with his rusty Japanese and through all the static garbling the transmission. That was five minutes ago.

And now, as the truck began slowing down, L.L. was grimly aware of the precarious position he had placed himself in. He was quite certain the driver would not be thrilled to learn he had a stowaway on board, no matter how good his intentions were in coming here in the first place. He would be _especially_ displeased once he realized that his stowaway had been there the whole time he was speaking to his associates, and he highly doubted the latter would grant him any favors once they arrived.

As these facts and implications stewed in his mind, they all eventually pointed to a singular, simple conclusion: he had to get out of here.

L.L. leapt to his feet the moment he felt and heard the truck hiss to a complete stop. He braced a hand against the wall of the trailer to keep his balance, and as he made his way to the doors at the back he made sure to keep as much distance as possible between himself and the large object taking up most of the space. He had had more than enough time to lift up the tarp and inspect it during the ride through the subway, and when he did so the numerous skull-and-crossbone symbols and detailed Britannian hazard warnings were all he needed to conclude that this canister did indeed hold poison gas.

The question was why, he thought to himself as he peered through the crack between the doors. It would be difficult to smuggle this weapon outside Tokyo, especially now that the military knew of its theft. The only option left to them was to use it within the Settlement, then, but that would undoubtedly endanger the lives of the Elevens living in the surrounding area as well. Surely they wouldn't take that risk...unless they determined its radius of effect beforehand, and arranged to have the endangered Elevens evacuated before...

L.L. shook his head, pushing open one of the doors cautiously so as not to make a sound. No, that would have taken a seriously coordinated effort, which would have been downright impossible to execute right under Britannia's nose.

In that case, stealing the weapon didn't seem to be a very ambitious move, in hindsight. Did the terrorists just plan to make it up as they went along? No, that would have been just foolhardy; perhaps they weren't certain the operation would succeed at all, then, and hadn't planned too far ahead? Or maybe this was a trial of sorts, a way to discern how far they could go and how extensively they could operate before the authorities eventually noticed and took action.

He fumbled the landing a bit after jumping down from the truck, breaking the fall with his hands and biting back a curse.

There was another option, he realized as he stepped slowly away from the vehicle. The terrorists could use the canister as a potent bargaining chip, either as a token of Britannia's incompetence in the matter, or – a more sinister motive, but far more likely, he was afraid – as a way of holding the Settlement's Britannian citizens hostage. This way they didn't have to do anything at all, but rather wait for Britannia to make the first move and act from there.

He wondered how Britannia would react if the terrorists really did play that card. The military could respond any number of ways, but considering the circumstances –

L.L. felt his train of thought unravel into threads as he rounded a corner of the tunnel and, for a split second, found himself unable to move.

When the shock finally subsided, he placed a hand against the wall as his eyes darted around the darkened tunnel. The mental pulse had caught him by surprise, but by no means was it an unfamiliar feeling. There was someone nearby, then, and not just _anyone_.

A Geass user? Or could it be...?

All of a sudden he saw a spinning flurry of limbs and camouflage armor coming his way. He was able to cross his arms in front of his face out of pure instinct but it still hurt like hell, and the force of the kick was enough to knock him off his feet anyway. He landed clumsily on his back, the cold roughness of the ground digging into his skin as a Britannian soldier grabbed a fistful of his turtleneck and dragged him up that way.

"Stop this," came the harsh command, spoken in Britannian. "Haven't you caused enough trouble already?"

L.L. had no idea what the soldier was talking about, and told him so. Bluntly.

"The poison gas," he continued, tightening his hold on the material. "Where is it? And where are your collaborators?"

"That has nothing to do with me."

The soldier yanked him forward roughly. His mouth, the only part of him visible through the armor and uniform, was curled in a frown. "Think of all the lives you've put in danger! Britannians _and_ Elevens! You don't have a – "

L.L. snarled. "I already told you!" He braced a foot against the front of the soldier's body armor and kicked him off with all the strength he had. It wasn't much – he merely ended up jumping a couple of feet back, immediately shifting to a fighting stance – but L.L. was too irritated with the accusation to care. "I'm not with the terrorists! I didn't steal your precious poison gas!"

He could see the soldier tense visibly as he stood up and brushed the dust off his pants. He heard the squeal of brakes, and in the corner of his eye he caught a short glimpse of the truck speeding in reverse, out of the tunnel; their recent exchange had been loud enough to alert the real terrorist, it seemed.

All this meant was that there was no reason to hold back anymore: "And what is Britannia doing, developing such a weapon in the first place? What ultimate purpose could that possibly serve, besides an eventual massacre?" He clenched his fists at his sides and bared his teeth, stepping forward and out of the darkened shadows near the walls. "Your self-righteous disapproval of these terrorists is unsurprising for a soldier of the Empire, but at the end of the day no matter _who_ ends up using the poison gas, when the death toll comes Britannia herself has a share in the blame!"

It was then that the soldier's stance faltered a bit, and he drew back slightly in surprise. "You're..."

L.L. narrowed his eyes, stopping several feet away. "I'm what?" He suddenly remembered that this stranger's presence had triggered something in his now-dormant connection to Geass; had he tried to use one on him, only to have it fail? If so, then he must have realized exactly _what_ L.L. was capable of by now.

"You're not...you don't match any of the descriptions given during our briefing." The soldier lowered his arms and straightened up entirely, speaking in a murmur now. "And you're not an Eleven either. Who are you?"

He opened his mouth to reply, but the voice that filled the dark tunnel twice over was not his own, and spoke in Japanese: "Hey! A Britannian soldier!"

L.L. turned, but was promptly spun the opposite way as a strong hand grabbed his wrist and the gesture was punctuated by what seemed to be a curse. "This way!"

He did not appreciate being practically _dragged _through the tunnels as they skirted bends and ducked low under unfinished ceiling supports. The soldier leading him ran impossibly fast, and on more than one occasion he felt himself stumbling to catch up.

But the hand on his arm was firm in its grip, and so he had no choice but to follow along.

So these were the other terrorists the truck driver wanted to meet here, he thought, unfazed by the occasional spray of bullets even as some came dangerously close. Occasionally he was able to catch glimpses of their pursuers as they rounded corners, and from those glimpses he was able to piece together a picture of what exactly they were up against: three Eleven terrorists, all male, all of medium build. One had dark-green hair, another wore glasses, and the third was insufferably loud as he hurled insult after insult throughout the chase.

"Where are we going?" he finally asked after taking one too many turns through these maddeningly identical tunnels. The question came out sounding more severe than he had intended, but he needed a way to mask the strain in his voice from all this running.

"I don't..." Surprisingly, the other man's voice was clear and held not even the slightest hint of exhaustion. "Really know."

"_What_?"

His incredulity quickly morphed into exasperation as they rounded a corner and he saw the hopeless dead-end a hundred meters away. But surprisingly, the soldier merely tightened his grip on his arm even more and dashed forward in a sudden burst of speed. Just as L.L. felt himself hurtling toward the wall he was pulled aside, behind a large slab of fallen concrete from where parts of the ceiling had caved.

He raised an unseen eyebrow as the soldier planted himself firmly in front of him, both of them barely concealed by the rubble. So he had chosen to hide, then? L.L. resisted the urge to shake his head. This was a terribly short-sighted move, and it wouldn't be long before –

Gunfire shredded the wall beside them. Just as he had expected.

L.L. sighed. The Code had afforded him the right to be completely unconcerned in situations which would normally test his mortality, such as this one. But as for _him_... "It looks like this is checkmate for you," he drawled, managing to sound indifferent despite the hushed tone.

"What?"

"In chess, when the king is threatened with immediate capture and has no other – "

"I know how to play chess!" The harsh whisper was riddled with the slightest hint of irritation.

L.L. smiled. "Well then don't you think it's just apt?"

The soldier's frame tensed visibly as heavy footsteps came closer, then stopped. They could see the shadows of the three men from their hiding place; they were dark, ominous against the feeble light.

"Are you sure they came this way, Tamaki?"

"Of course I'm sure! There's no way they could have gone anywhere else!" And then there was a pause, a tense draw for breath, before the loud one raised his voice in accented Britannian: "I'll give you both until count of five to come out, Brit shit. A Britannian soldier and his friend will make _great_ prisoners!"

L.L. almost had to laugh at that; if this man thought anyone would be willing to pay ransom for a wandering, immortal gambler, he was going to be in for a rude surprise.

"One!"

He glanced at the soldier once more. No, he was certainly not a Geass user; if he were, he would have played that card by now.

So that left only one other possibility...

"This doesn't have to be the end for you, you know," he drawled, straightening up and folding his arms across his chest. "I'm certain you don't want _this_ to be all you have to show for yourself, am I right?"

The soldier was busy unfastening his helmet, but turned to face him with a curious air. "What?"

"I can give it to you," he continued smoothly. "A second chance. You must have something you aspire to, and if you just let these circumstances unfold as they will, you won't live to see it happen." ("Two!") "I can grant you the power to _change_ this, to change your destiny. To remove all obstacles standing between you and your goals. Although..." He took a moment to fix the man with a meaningful smirk. "I suppose I would think twice about giving such a gift to a dog of Britannia."

Many times L.L. had witnessed C.C. granting Geass to individuals backed into a corner; that was how he had obtained the power of the King, after all, and he'd even tried it himself once or twice in these past decades. When fed that single line of hope, they would cling to it like a castaway on a plank and all else be damned.

"Three!"

So while he was expecting the soldier to do one of a number of things – beg him for it, ask him how it would work, renounce his allegience to Britannia right then and there in exchange for this power he was offering – instead, all he got was the slightest hint of a smile.

"That's fine. I don't want it."

The nonchalant refusal (his _first_) stunned him completely into silence.

And for the first time in a very long, long while, L.L. found he needed a few moments to compose a reply, only to end up scrambling all over it once he began: "You...we are _trapped_ here and there are _three_ of them and their assault rifles are identical to yours! All the existing conditions are _against _us, and – !"

He stopped mid-sentence, allowing the yell of "Four!" to fill the air unchallenged, when the soldier shrugged off the strap attached to his rifle and let the weapon drop to the ground.

"What... Are you out of your mind?!" he demanded angrily.

"It's heavy. This is, too," was the only reply he got, as the soldier finally removed his helmet completely.

Tousled brown hair caught what little light there was, with several stray locks framing pools of a very rich shade of green. This soldier was no more than a _boy_, he realized with surprise, and the latter quickly turned into shock when the helmet clattered beside the discarded rifle and he was finally able to place the boy's ethnicity. "You're an _Eleven_?"

The look the soldier gave him was unreadable, but there was something in it that made his eyes glitter as he threw him a grin with a final, backward glance over his shoulder.

His voice was much softer when he spoke again: "Sir, if I may request that you please stay here, keep your head down, and not do anything rash."

Still struggling to come to terms with the sheer absurdity of this whole situation, L.L. found himself grasping at straws to at least appreciate that reasonable sentiment ("Five!"), a thought which quickly flew out the window when the soldier leapt up from behind the rubble and dashed headlong into the ensuing hail of gunfire.

* * *

More Author's Notes: Hello all and welcome to _Bird's-Eye View_, my first attempt at an AU and, if all goes well, possibly my main project for 2010. As mentioned, the narrative of this fic will run parallel to that of the anime, based on the premise stated in the first Author's Note above.

Some points I feel worth discussing:

- One major theme that will probably encompass the fic as a whole is that of time as a 'tapestry'; that is, even if you change one element / event, you could still possibly end up on a course leading to a result that would have come true regardless of what you changed. For example, in this chapter, even with the huge difference brought about by an older/immortal L.L., the terrorists still end up stealing the poison gas canister, because up to this point 'Lelouch' hasn't entered the equation yet; it's just that it isn't C.C. in the canister at all, hence Clovis' lukewarm interest in the theft. Rivalz still can't make his bike go faster, the truck still ends up crashing, Suzaku still ends up in the subway, et cetera. But at this point several differences have begun to sprout, and while there will still be some very close parallels of the canon storyline in the near future, as the story progresses the two timelines will inexorably tend to diverge.

- It may seem, from the above point, that most of the challenge of this fic will be cerebral. But actually, this premise was a request on the kinkmeme, which immediately requires the inclusion of mature themes. I will honor that (in due time, of course), which is why this fic is rated M from the start. Whoever wrote that prompt also requested that the pairing be Lelouch x Suzaku; I will honor that as well. So I guess it's only fair to place this warning in advance: if slash offends / doesn't agree with you, then this fic probably isn't for you.

- L.L. has no blood ties to the Royal Family. Not that I can imagine how he could, in the first place, but...just to get that out there.

- Of course, now that L.L. and Suzaku are bound to become 'accomplices', the most fun part of this fic will be exploring that recurring concept in the anime: that together, those two can do anything, and I do mean _anything_.

All that having been said, thanks for reading and please do let me know what you think! While I know how this fic begins and ends, everything in between is still up in the air. And while this fic promises to be a very enjoyable project, it also promises to be quite a challenging one, so any and all feedback would be great and much appreciated. I hope you enjoyed the first chapter, and that I'll see you around for the next ones =).

Cheers!


	2. Stage 02: No More Miracles

Disclaimer: _Code Geass_ – with its characters, settings, and all other borrowed elements here – is the sole property of its creators. I do this purely for my own entertainment, and (hopefully) that of my readers as well.

Opening lines of this chapter are taken from _You'll Be Safe Here_, a song by a group called Rivermaya. If you know who they are...odds are you now also know where I'm from (although my profile says 'Canada', I've actually been here for less than two years.)

Warnings for this chapter: As in the previous one, language and violence. Some small references to darker themes, which later chapters will have in spades, begin.

Enjoy!

* * *

**.**

_Nobody knows just why we're here_

_Could it be fate or random circumstance?_

_At the right place, at the right time_

_Two roads intertwine_

**.**

**Bird's-Eye View**

Stage 02

**. : No More Miracles : .**

When L.L. raised his head so that his eyes just barely cleared the edge of the rubble, the very first thought that came to his mind was this: that no human should be capable of moving so _fast_.

The second thought was one that came completely out of nowhere, although it did follow rather quickly from the first. And yet he could think of no other way to describe what he was seeing; as the soldier dodged each bullet with swift, fluid motions, and with the staccato of the gunfire serving as a macabre kind of beat, he suddenly felt as though he were watching a dance.

But it all happened too quickly – a jab to the nape, a quick feint, a fist colliding with cheekbone and knocking off the pair of glasses there. He made a calm, perfectly-timed grab for the rifle before ramming it sideways into the loud man's gut, and just like that the gunfire stopped and the dance was over.

It was not until the soldier had dropped to his knees, busily binding the wrists of one of the now-unconscious terrorists behind his back, that L.L. finally regained his voice.

"You reckless idiot," he seethed. "That was so unbelievably _stupid._ You could have gotten yourself killed!"

"But I didn't, did I?"

"That's not the point," he insisted. Stepping out into the center of the tunnel, he caught sight of the many bullet holes that riddled the floor and traced out the path that had been the soldier's mad dash. "What if one of those had hit you? What then?"

He could almost swear he heard a smile in the reply: "Then I would have died."

The words were spoken so candidly, and with such nonchalance that L.L. thought to second-guess his desire to press the subject. Instead, he shook his head and asked, "What is your name?"

"Kururugi Suzaku."

Spoken as a true Eleven, he mused to himself then, with the slightest hint of a roll in the _r_'s, and the last syllable spoken as though in an afterthought. But that wasn't what piqued his interest the most. "Are you related to the late Genbu, by any chance?"

The soldier's fingers fumbled with a knot at his query, and he had his answer. "You knew my father?"

"I knew _of _him," L.L. corrected. He supposed there were only a precious few people in this Area, Eleven or otherwise, who didn't know of Japan's former leader. He was a revered figure, then and even now; the country's initial, bitter resistance to foreign rule was reversed completely when his suicide led to Japan's immediate surrender. "What is the last Prime Minister's son doing in the Britannian military?"

It took awhile for him to reply. "When my father died, the war stopped. There was peace again." He pulled on the hook at one end of the finished knot, revealing more cable, and proceeded to drag the first man closer to his companions. "I'm just trying to preserve that peace."

L.L. snorted. "By serving your country's oppressors?" He moved closer to where the light in the tunnel was strongest, leaning against the wall and wearing a puzzled smirk. "I somehow doubt that was what your father wanted for you."

"That doesn't matter; it doesn't have to b- " Suzaku stopped talking altogether, killing his own train of thought as he shook his head with a smile. "I'm sorry, I...don't know you well enough to have this conversation with you." He lifted up his gaze, and when their eyes met his smile widened just a little bit. "Sir."

"What a flimsy excuse."

"Still, I don't think I've had the pleasure."

He sighed loudly, knowing there was no hope of steering the conversation back to where it was. It was a pity, though, as the soldier's logic seemed so painfully muddled that it actually intrigued him, but he supposed it was none of his business either way. "You may call me L.L."

"L.L.?" Suzaku repeated. "All I get are initials?"

"Take it or leave it." L.L. shrugged indifferently. "I suppose it's not my fault you're naive enough to give your full name to a complete stranger, and in such a hostile environment like this as well."

"You're probably right." He was a bit surprised that the soldier agreed with him so easily, but even more so when he chuckled and glanced up once more, his gaze now much softer than before. "You don't trust people easily, do you?"

L.L. kept silent – not out of petulance, but because he truly didn't know what to say to that.

It wasn't as though he disdained humanity as a whole, or anything that extreme. People were just generally _predictable_, something he learned from years upon years of quietly observing them as they went about their business, interacted with each other, lived their lives. From little things like a tone of voice, a shift in gaze, a certain posture, he could tell when one was sincere and when another was lying through his teeth, when one had nothing but good intentions and when another's 'friendship' was only worth how many favors he could obtain.

There were exceptions every now and then, he recalled as he watched the soldier draw out even more cable and finish up the job, so that the three men were soon sitting on the ground with their wrists yanked behind them and all tied together that way. He certainly _hadn't_ predicted that Suzaku would jump out at the last second and take down all three terrorists unarmed.

"Why didn't you just kill them?" he finally quipped as soon as the last knot was tied, the cable tugged to test its strength, and the hook dropped completely. "It would have saved you a lot of trouble."

Suzaku removed the ammunition clips from the rifles, pocketing them and then making sure the guns themselves were well out of reach. "They have the right to a fair trial," was all he said, but his voice was far quieter now and had lost its previous cheeriness altogether.

"What fair trial? They're _terrorists_," L.L. told him flatly, as though this were a fact that still needed to be spelled out. "Britannia will just find them guilty without even trying, and then have them executed anyway. The Empire treats its Eleven subjects appallingly; what more these unapologetic terrorists?" Pausing, he tilted his head up to face the ceiling; less than a minute ago this tunnel had been filled with the sounds of footsteps, gunfire, and yelling, and now it was so quiet. "Killing them now yourself would probably be an act of mercy."

"Maybe that's true. But..." When Suzaku spoke again there was a newfound conviction in his voice, but L.L. couldn't tell for sure if it were genuine or otherwise. "Maybe there's another way. Maybe this Empire can be changed, for the better. From the inside."

"By whom? By _you_?" The look he was met with was nothing if not earnest, and he couldn't help but laugh.

"Well, why not?" the soldier protested. "Maybe I can't hope to change anything _now_, but if I – "

"But if you work hard enough and climb the ranks by your sweat and blood, you can win their favor?" L.L. pre-empted in a languid drawl. "Make them trust you, like you enough to make an actual difference?" He shook his head insistently. Perhaps this soldier wasn't _completely _unpredictable after all, but all things considered this was still quite ludicrous. "Your aspirations are noble, but painfully naive. Even if you do end up throwing away the next few decades of your life and somehow manage to claw your way to the top in the process, none of that is going to matter. Do you know why?" He did not even wait for a reply. "Because despite any rank you attain or any legendary feats you might accomplish, none of those will change what you are to them: an Eleven. A _Number_. Discrimination against people like you is part of Britannia's _national policy_. Do you understand now?"

The silence that followed weighed heavily in the tense, cold air. The soldier's previous determination gave way to surprise, followed by a sickening kind of despair as he let his gaze drop to the ground.

L.L. looked away, suddenly wondering if he had crossed a line. But surely this soldier couldn't have been _that _naive, could he?

Either way, he was bound to learn the harsh truth eventually. And while L.L. didn't particularly appreciate being the one who had to burst the proverbial bubble, perhaps he had done the boy a favor in the end.

Yes, it was better this way, he convinced himself – tried to, at least – as he turned away. "Aren't you going to say something?" he asked coldly.

"I..."

White light suddenly flooded the tunnel, putting an abrupt end to their conversation. He squinted and held a hand up to the side of his face by reflex, although he wasn't sure which startled him more – the light, or the way Suzaku leapt in front of him protectively, fists raised. "Who's there?"

When he finally adjusted to the brightness, L.L. was able to make out the faint silhouettes in the distance. There were eight...no, nine of them, the last one coming into view when its owner lowered the arm holding the offending flashlight. "Is that you, 404?" The voice, gruff and demanding, seemed to boom through the tunnel.

"Sir!" Suzaku dropped his fighting stance immediately. He jogged towards the source of the voice, stopping about a meter away with his heels clicked together and two fingertips at the corner of his eyebrow. "My apologies."

The man with the flashlight – a captain, L.L. guessed from the insignia on his hat – impassively shifted his gaze and the flashlight's beam around the small enclosure. "Those are the terrorists. Are they dead?" he asked, motioning towards the three bound and unconscious Elevens in the corner, before adding belatedly, "At ease."

Suzaku dropped his salute, breaking the rigid line of his torso as he let out a small breath. "No, sir."

The man focused the flashlight's beam directly onto the soldier's face, and L.L. wondered how in the world the latter was able to just stand there without flinching. "And why the hell is that so?" came the response, laced with a snarl and upped several decibels.

Really though, he should have seen this coming. Had he also been clueless enough to think that deliberately leaving several wanted terrorists alive would grant him a pat on the back? He sighed inwardly; if things proceeded the way they _seemed_ to be headed, this was only destined to end in a tragic –

"Sir, we still haven't located the stolen gas canister. If they had any information to give us about its whereabouts, or what they're planning to do with it, I'd thought they would be more useful to us alive." The boy squinted a little, the harsh light finally taking its toll. "Sir."

Unseen, L.L. raised an eyebrow at that; nicely done, he wanted to say. Either this strange boy was adept at crafting bullshit on the spot – something he honestly doubted, given the first impression he'd received of Suzaku's acumen on such matters – or this was a well-practiced alibi, although he could not imagine this soldier willfully lying to his superiors. Which was it, then?

"Hmph." The captain mercifully lowered the flashlight until it was aimed at the ground, and this time he was able to see the squad quite clearly. The rest of the men formed a straight, unmoving line behind their captain, faces closed, guns at the ready. And when his mind finally placed their uniforms it did so with a bit of apprehension: what was the Royal Guard doing in this place?

"Then who the hell is this?"

L.L. turned pointedly away with a scowl when the captain moved his wrist and the light hit him square in the face.

Suzaku whirled around, and something that seemed too much like recognition flashed over his features then; what, had the boy _forgotten_ about him? "Oh. He's a civilian, sir. He isn't with the terrorists."

"Why are you so sure of that? Because he _said _so?" The captain broke into a loud guffaw, and soon low chuckles from the rest of his men chimed in. "Don't be so gullible, 404!"

"He's not," L.L. countered, inclining his head towards the trio. "I have nothing to do with these men."

"You'll need a much better defense than that, little s- "

"I'm not an Eleven," he cut in icily. He hated having to play that card, but this was getting out of hand and he supposed this was the fastest, if not the only, way to end it.

Or perhaps he was wrong, as the officer's eyes narrowed into dangerous slits. "404," he began in a low voice, slowly drawing a pistol and offering it to the soldier in question. "I'm willing to overlook this stupidity on your part and pretend it never happened...if you shoot him."

"What!"

"Sir...?" Suzaku's voice sounded strangled.

"I can _maybe _even get some of the men from your platoon to keep their distance for a couple of nights, but I'm not promising anything." This was met with more laughter, but of a darker tone this time. "Kill him. Eleven or not, three terrorists to interrogate is more than enough."

Hot anger coursed through his veins. If only he still had his Geass, this wouldn't be a problem; he could try to use _that_, but they were too far away, and he hadn't exactly mastered it...clenching his fists, he shook his head and refused to panic. "I told you, I'm not – !"

"I can't."

The soft-spoken declaration seemed to carry with it a blanket of uncanny silence. Despite all his recent, frantic scheming, L.L. felt the gears in his mind grind to a halt.

"In case I wasn't clear, that was an order, _Private._"

"I mean no disrespect...sir. But I..." When Suzaku turned to him, there was a small smile tugging on the corner of his lips. But it was strange because his gaze was not soft, or warm, like he thought it should be; it was bitter, and he could not remember if he had ever seen anyone look so forlorn. "I can't shoot an innocent civilian. I won't."

And while they locked gazes in the tense, wordless moment that followed, L.L. didn't know whether to be grateful, or exasperated that this soldier's seemingly quixotic sense of morality was now bordering dangerously on foolishness. Surely that was all it was; there was no earthly reason he could think of for someone to jeopardize his position, and maybe even more, for the sake of a complete stranger he had only known for several _minutes_.

"Worthless Eleven," a low growl and the click of a gun dragged him back to reality, "let me show you how it's done."

L.L. did not feel any fear, or panic. Not because he didn't need to, but because there just wasn't enough time before the bullet buried itself into his heart.

Two seconds, maybe three at most – he never even felt himself hit the ground. But just before it all faded into nothingness, he could have sworn he heard another gunshot.

* * *

Outside, the Shinjuku ghetto was bathed in the glow of the afternoon sun; the latter shone over shanties, garbage, ruined buildings and a lone Glasgow making its way through the empty streets.

Its pilot was a young girl with short hair the color of wine. She had Britannian eyes – blue, like her father's – but during operations like these she would rather not acknowledge that part of her lineage at all. Not when she was fighting for Japan.

She had been leading this rather strange life for quite awhile now. Half of her days were spent in school, at a private academy where she could easily lose herself in a crowd of sleepy-eyed sons and daughters of the Britannian nobility. The rest of her days were like today – sitting in the cramped, sweltering cockpit of an old Knightmare frame with her world reduced to mere panels and the sky nowhere in sight.

A sharp burst of static made her jerk in surprise, and the machine veered slightly to the left in response. She swore, shifting the controller the other way to compensate.

"Kallen!" The voice from the radio was muffled, but the strain held there was clear as day. "Where's Nagata? Does he still have the truck?"

"I don't know," she answered, barely keeping her own anxiety in check. Her eyes were darting in every direction, and she just wanted a way to disappear. The Glasgow afforded her a tremendous boost in fighting power against tanks and helicopters, but it was just so damn _conspicuous_, and she knew it wouldn't be long before authorities found out and dispatched the proper units to deal with it. "We were separated hours ago. He still had the truck then, but I don't know about now."

"Well we need to regroup. Nagata's out of range, and I haven't heard from Tamaki or the others since they went to meet him at the tunnels." The transmission was peppered with the sound of gunfire. "Try to get to the closest entrance to the subway. We'll meet you there later, but for now you just need to get out of sight."

"I hear you, Ohgi. But I – " She cried out in surprise as bullets rammed into the side of the Glasgow. The cockpit shuddered from the assault and her knuckles turned white against the controllers as she _forced _the Knightmare to move.

Kallen grit her teeth as the image on the screen flickered. She recognized the telltale violet armor of the unit in front of her well enough, and in this situation it may as well have been a portent of doom.

A steady beeping noise timed with a flashing red light informed her she was being hailed. Mindlessly she pressed down on the button – anything to make the damned distraction stop – only to hear the formal order to surrender from the enemy pilot, a knight of Britannia.

She wondered what her brother would have to say if she did indeed surrender now, he who had given up his life for this war. And so with the chorus of the man's rich, cultured Britannian against Ohgi's frantic calls of 'Kallen!' and '_daijoubu ka?_', she charged.

The enemy Sutherland blocked her offense effortlessly, as though its pilot had been expecting this all along.

They both knew which one of them had the mechanical advantage; Sutherlands, after all, were introduced after the Glasgows had been retired, and were developed specifically for anti-Knightmare combat. So as the alarms began and numerous red-lined warning boxes mushroomed on her side-panels, she knew it was just a matter of time.

A small part of her, though, still held out hope for a miracle. This was the part of her that clung stubbornly to the controls, fired off her harkens from dubious angles, took a hit to the Glasgow's arm to buy an opening for the rifle's barrage.

It was the frantic report of her depleted energy filler that shook her violently back to reality. Down by an arm, assault rifle low on bullets and with the enemy Sutherland still _standing _there with nary a scratch on its proud purple armor, she forced herself to accept that the heavens would not be sending her a miracle right now.

Kallen wasn't sure which hurt more – her heart or her hand when she slammed a fist down on the waiting 'eject' button, sending herself airborne.

* * *

_Suzaku did not expect hell to be like this: an infinite expanse of formless structures in black and sepia, silent and so very cold. He also did not expect it to be empty, save for one other person who now shared the space with him._

_Even with his back turned to him, he already knew who the man was. He still recognized, after all, the proud, stocky frame, the drab gray of the suits he favored, the way he parted his hair. The way he clasped his hands behind his back when he was deep in thought, large fingers locked just so. The way he carried himself, straight and proud with a slightly bowlegged stance and his head held high. _

_When the man turned to face him, he closed his eyes with a defeated sigh. _

_He was ready. He was ready to finally take his judgment, which had been postponed for seven long years:_

"_So are we having a bad daaaay?!" _

Green eyes snapped open as their owner came to with a jerk.

"It's such a shame. You were so _close_ to those Pearly Gates, Private Kururugi!"

Suzaku found himself struggling to get a sense of his bearings as the unfamiliar, flippant voice continued to chatter on. The air here now smelled of clean metal and too many computer fans, while more voices created a wordless din in the background. The lights were bright, an abruptly painful development from the darkness at the edge of his dream, and the dim shadows of the subway tunnels –

A searing flash of pain in his side forced a hiss through his lips as he sat up, and his brain was finally cleared of the haze enough to _remember_: the terrorists, that strange civilian, the Royal Guard; the cold barrel poking into his ribs (_"Britannia has no use for pathetic soldiers who cannot follow simple orders!"_) and the bullet that ended it all.

"Where...?" was all he was able to say, and he stopped trying to finish the question when his voice cracked unpleasantly halfway through the word.

"Hm? Oh, we're in the A.S.E.E.C.'s trailer," came the reply. The man's voice was more tamed now, but it still held a whimsical note as he pushed his glasses further up the bridge of his nose. He had pale blue eyes that matched his hair (odd), and Suzaku was well-acquainted enough with the military's hierarchy to recognize the green band around the man's sleeve, a sign that he was a member of an irregular division in the army. "We had no reason to stay in the Shinjuku ghetto, so we thought it would be best to return to the A.S.E.E.C.'s headquarters back at the base."

A.S.E.E.C. – he racked his brains for what that acronym, one of the hundreds he had been forced to memorize, stood for, but his mind was not willing to cooperate beyond 'Advanced-Special-something.' He swung his legs over the edge of the metal table they had placed him on and only noticed now that the floor was indeed rumbling beneath them. He felt a shiver crawling up his spine and resisted the urge to hug himself; the bandages wrapped around his abdomen and slung over his shoulder did precious little to ward off the cold.

"This is what saved your life, Private Kururugi." He looked up at the soft, female voice that had interrupted his thoughts, and saw a dark-haired woman wearing an unfamiliar uniform and a smile in her eyes. In her hands she held something cushioned by a white handkerchief, and when she held it up to him for closer inspection he found himself staring at the broken glass of his father's pocketwatch.

"Ah yes, it barely stopped the bullet that punctured your body armor from killing you," the bespectacled man drawled.

There was something apologetic about the woman's smile, and it warmed him, but only a bit. "Is it something precious to you?"

Suzaku accepted the item gratefully. "Um," he nodded, his voice softened to a murmur. "Yes. Thanks."

"I've heard that you Elevens believe there are gods living in everyday objects. Some even say..."

The soldier found himself tuning out the man's voice and staring at the scuffs on the frame in his hand, the light bouncing off jagged edges of glass, and the frozen hands – _2:34_. That would have been the time of death on his file, he thought ironically, had it not been for this, his father's memento.

He wondered why he had been allowed to survive today. He had been so sure he was done for when he felt the metal at his side and heard the second gunshot –

His eyes widened at the belated recollection.

"Wait! Was there a – ?"

The blue-haired man stopped talking immediately and fixed him with a close-mouthed grin. Suzaku flushed a little when he realized he had stopped the man in the middle of speaking, but the latter was waiting for him to continue as well. That was the problem though, he realized when he went over just what he was about to ask. _Was there another person in the tunnel, tall, slim, with black hair and violet eyes and a bullet wound in his chest, possibly lying in a pool of blood?_

He shook his head. "What happened?" he asked quietly instead.

"Hmmm, well, it appears a Britannian soldier who was off-duty sent a _10-2_ to the ground forces deployed in Shinjuku using your radio. We weren't actually there, but my assistant was calibrating the system on our new communications unit and she picked up on the signal."

"Was there...was there no one else there?"

"Nope! I'm sure because we were the ones who personally collected you from that location. Which is _good_," the man clapped his hands together, "because when your savior identified you as an Eleven, that killed just about _any_ hopes you had of seeing an ambulance before sundown!"

There was much sputtering when the said assistant stopped smiling altogether and elbowed her superior in the ribs, a meaningful "Lloyd!" hissed between her teeth.

As the two began to bicker, he felt his earlier suspicions that he was _not _in a typical military unit confirmed, and he mulled over the information he had just been given. He was sure L.L. had not been far away when he was shot. Did the Royal Guard move the body then? He frowned. They probably learned on their own that L.L. really wasn't with the terrorists, but by then it would have been too late. Perhaps hiding the evidence had been their only option.

He sighed. On paper, the right thing to do would be to report the incident, but he wondered how much water the testimony of an Eleven – a supposedly-_dead_ Eleven – would hold against that of the Royal Guard. He wondered if they would kill him again for trying if he really did.

"Private Kururugi." Once more Lloyd's voice cut into his musings, and he looked up just in time to see the man adjusting his glasses again. "How much experience do you have piloting a Knightmare frame?"

"Eh?" Suzaku blinked, for a moment doubting he'd heard the question correctly. "Uh, none...sir," he added, just in case this man outranked him – not that it would take much, really. Besides, he was quite certain running simulations didn't serve as actual experience.

And, just as his colleagues were fond of reminding him: an Eleven couldn't possibly become a Knight.

"Oh?" He didn't realize he had voiced that last thought aloud until Lloyd pulled an odd-looking golden key from his pocket and looped the white strap around his finger, letting it dangle that way before the boy's face. "And what if he _could_?"

Suzaku stared at him. He wasn't sure if he couldn't comprehend the question – he understood the words well enough, he just didn't seem to _get_ it – or if this man was joking and he just didn't realize it yet.

"Congratulations!!" Lloyd exclaimed at his silence, leaning in impossibly close and forcing him to draw back in surprise. "A first-rate, one-of-a-kind, seventh-generation Knightmare awaits you right at this very moment! If you'll take this..." And then there was that key again, its golden sheen catching the light as it danced in front of him.

"What he means to say," the woman cut in politely, "is that this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Especially for you, considering the circumstances. This prototype uses Sakuradite in..."

_An Eleven couldn't possibly become a Knight._ The words blocked out her own and rang out clearly in his mind, words he had heard spoken so many times that they seemed to have formed a mantra that promised to taunt him until his death. But it was nothing if not true, which was why it really begged the question: why were they offering this now, to _him _of all people – ?

"...and your simulation scores were at the top of the class too!"

Ah. He allowed himself a small smile as the woman fished out a stack of files and read the results of his most recent tests aloud. It felt somewhat good to know that those almost-daily sessions with a virtual Knightmare hadn't been all for naught, as it turned out. But...

"Actually there was one other pilot who matched your simulation results." The indifferent drawl sounded like a drawn-out musing. "We approached him first, but he was only able to come up with a seventy-two per cent efficiency rating with the Lancelot, on average."

"Lancelot?" he parroted, to the best of his abilities. Even though he had more or less mastered Britannian after years of using the language, L's were still rather difficult to pronounce when it came to unfamiliar words.

Or names, a part of him thought, and at that his mind flashed back to that curious stranger in the tunnels, who went by _L.L._ as though inadvertently mocking him. Not that he hadn't thoroughly done so anyway, but...no, it wasn't good to think ill of the dead.

"That's the name of my creation!" It was easy to detect the swell of pride in the man's declaration, and then it all fell into place: the white lab coat, the decidedly informal environment, A.S.E.E.C. – one of those E's stood for 'Engineering,' he recalled belatedly, and this man was a scientist. "But seventy-two per cent isn't nearly enough to gather any useful battle data. And the pilot didn't seem too keen on working with an experimental frame to begin with. Well, I suppose I couldn't blame him, after all it _could _very easily fall into a critical malfunction or even spontaneously implode, and as to _why_, well wouldn't be the wiser – !"

"_Lloyd!"_

"Aha! Was that a bit too blunt?" Without even waiting for a reply the scientist twirled around, waving a hand dismissively in the air. "I believe we're almost at our destination. I will show you the Lancelot, of course, but I'm afraid you'll have to make do with field tests and such trivial things until we actually get an order to launch. And knowing how the current hierarchy is constructed, the chances of _that _happening are around one in..."

Lloyd was still speaking even as he turned his back to them and entered another compartment of the trailer, and so the rest of his statement was cut off by a hissing metal door, and then silence.

"Please don't get the wrong impression; even if he doesn't seem like it, he really does mean well. He just doesn't know it sometimes." The woman patted his arm gently. "My name is Cécile. May I call you Suzaku?"

"Of course," he replied. Despite everything that had just happened, there was something strangely comforting in her smile, her kind eyes. "Thank you for saving me today. I'm sorry to trouble you like this."

"No trouble at all. If you ask him, Lloyd will insist the only reason we saved you was so that he could have a chance to find a pilot skilled enough to clear at least eighty per cent in the Lancelot, but he doesn't mean that." The hand on his arm then squeezed ever so lightly, and her smile faded a little. "It's all right if you don't want to. It is after all an experimental frame, so the risks are much higher, as I'm sure you understand."

"Ah, it's...no. That's not it," he shook his head looked away. How odd it must have seemed to her, he realized, to see a lowly Eleven who was _not_ rabid with excitement at the thought of being offered a chance to pilot a Knightmare frame, and a prototype at that. And indeed, half of him was thrilled at the chance, because this was an opportunity he had only ever dared to contemplate in his fantasies. Danger had nothing to do with it, although it probably never did anyway.

But to the other half of him, the half that in all its self-loathing could not quite forget the stranger in the tunnels and his effective parting words – that he would never make a difference, that he would never be good enough – this was all a twisted, cruelly-timed joke that held more irony than he was willing to acknowledge.

"Well you don't have to decide right away," Cécile said reassuringly. "I suppose it's a lot to take in. Take your time." With that she stood up, brushing off the creases in her orange skirt, and all of a sudden his arm was left wanting for warmth. "I have to get back to work, so please stay here and rest for as long as you need. Okay?"

As she disappeared through the same door Lloyd had previously waltzed into, his heart ached with gratitude; he had been so used to cruelty by now that he was no longer sure he knew how to respond to such simple kindness.

* * *

Whatever merriment the Third Prince had obtained from that hour-long party evaporated in seconds as he received the officer's report.

Not only had they _still_ been unable to recover the stolen canister, but apparently now...

"All of them?" Clovis repeated in a tight voice, his hands trembling in clenched fists at his sides. "Are you sure?"

"We've confirmed it, your Highness." The man sounded despondent. As he damn well should be. "We're still trying to estimate what time the incident occurred. There were no witnesses, at least, none that we know of yet."

Clovis raked a hand through his hair and stared irritably off to the side. An army of maids was busy collecting the various dishes and silverware left over from the festivities, and other servants had begun setting up the decorations for tomorrow's events: brunch with the Women's Literature Society, after which they would have four hours to tear it all down and prepare for the birthday dinner of some nobleman's eldest son.

All of those were mere trifles compared to _this_.

It was no secret to Britannia that the situation in Area 11 had always been rather volatile. He knew some of the figures back home were skeptical of his post at first, but Clovis had surprised them (and, to a certain extent, himself) by performing rather competently: he had each act of terrorism dealt with individually, taking them as they came to _him_, and as a result the perpetrators of these foolishness either ended up behind bars or chased to the mountains and cut off from the Settlement. Of course Britannia's superiority – in numbers, in technology, in everything – helped immensely, and all things considered he had managed to even keep the Japanese Liberation Front, the biggest threat to the occupation, at a tense and careful distance.

But today things had suddenly changed, and failures were stacking up one after another.

It all began with that blasted poison gas canister, although if they had only managed to retrieve it quickly this might have turned out for the better, casting a positive light on the Knight-police. Hours later there was still no sign of the weapon, and they would have to answer for that. It was still not that big of a problem.

But then _this _happened, and Clovis knew that with the theft of the poison gas, the local government had just been dealt a one-two punch that suddenly placed his post as Viceroy in alarming jeopardy.

If there was no way to salvage the situation, the next best thing would be...

Gritting his teeth, the Prince was at least marginally pleased with the firm and steady timbre of his voice when he finally gave his order.

* * *

Kallen had to learn the hard way that her purse-knife was no match for the industrial-strength cable binding her three comrades together. This was the stuff slash harkens were made of, as well as the ropes on the reels welded to chopper floors whenever they were used to deploy ground troops. So despite Tamaki and his relentless badgering – she was glad enough that Sugiyama and Minami were trying to calm him down, and were being much more cooperative – this was a task doomed to failure from the start.

"I still can't believe you lost the Glasgow!" was currently echoing off the tunnel walls.

"I can't believe you were taken down by _one_ soldier!" she snapped back, before turning an apologetic gaze towards the other two. "No offense, guys."

"None taken," Minami assured her good-naturedly. "He was really, really fast though – I don't think I even saw him all that well."

"So none of you were able to get a good look at him then?" she asked, surprised.

"No," Tamaki growled out, "but one day I'm going to find that fucking _Buriki _and kill him myself!"

"How are you going to do that if you don't know what he looks like, Tamaki-san?" Inoue's smiling, softspoken logic presented a stark contrast to the grenade launcher strapped across her torso.

The man in question paused for a moment, before snarling out something unintelligible with such passion that he strained wildly against the bindings. "Hold still," Kallen ground out, retracting the blade before she could nick any of them.

"_You lost the damn Glasgow!!_" was the comeback she got for her trouble.

With a sigh she returned to the fruitless task at hand, hoping to find a spot where the cable had frayed or maybe otherwise degraded so she could work from there. She realized too late that she had been facing in the direction of the subway entrance when the cockpit ejected, and so she was sent further out of way and ended up taking longer than necessary to get here. So she hadn't been surprised to find everyone else here when she arrived – the trio, Inoue, Yoshida who was currently kneeling on the dirty floor and loading ammunition clips into the empty rifles at his feet. And...

"She didn't have a choice," the leader of their little resistance cell, Ohgi, intoned in a placating manner. "If she hadn't gotten out of there, she might have been captured...or worse."

"If I'd been captured," she pointed out softly, "it wouldn't have been that much of a problem. I would have gotten off with a slap on the wrist."

"And otherwise?" Ohgi turned to her with a slightly disapproving look; there was just the barest hint of protectiveness there, and it somehow reminded her of – no, she would not think of him, not here, not _now._ "We can always try to steal another Knightmare. But a skilled pilot who's on_ our _side, that's completely i- "

She would have wanted to hear the end of that, but the sudden explosion was much louder.

"What was that?" Ohgi whirled back around and cast an apprehensive glance into the rest of the tunnel. Inoue stopped her banter with the three, quickly running around them to watch the other side.

Kallen caught the rifle Yoshida tossed her way and held it with a practiced ease that she knew she shouldn't be proud of. "Are you sure nobody followed us?" she asked, taking her post beside the blue-haired woman.

"I double-checked. Nobody else is supposed to be here."

The gunfire began then, rapid bursts that had the four of them frantically trying to place the source. But the sounds seemed to be coming from everywhere at once, and realization dawned when they lowered their weapons and tilted their heads upward.

"From above?"

She could see her own confusion mirrored on her comrades' faces.

"I'll see what's going on," she volunteered, spinning on her heel and sprinting towards the nearest exit.

"Wait!" Ohgi called out. "It's too risky. We don't know what's happening yet – "

"How are we going to know if we don't find out?!" She had to shout in order to be heard over the seemingly steady stream of bullets; she'd counted barrages from at least five distinct assault rifles directly above them, but with the way the sounds grew louder and increasingly more erratic, she was no longer sure.

And there were other noises now too, ones that gave her pause and took longer to identify. Every now and then an explosion would block everything else out, sending tremors through the walls. The _swoosh _of parted air and the grinding of landspinners against concrete – were those Knightmares?

From there, it didn't take much longer for the screams to reach her ears.

"I'm going," Kallen declared then, but although her voice was made of steel and her grip was firm around the weapon in her hands, she could feel her heart hammering within.

She had barely made it halfway through when a truck came barreling round the corner in front of her. The screeching of its tires and the squeal of brakes were muted by the chaos above as it came to a stop, blocking her path.

It was a different trailer, and the driver sported a new disguise, and so she didn't recognize the man until he had jumped out. "Nagata!"

The rifles that had all been aimed at the newcomer were lowered in an instant, and he was quick to give his report. "Thank goodness you're all still here. I was able to hide the canister in _that _place like we planned, but with the way things are going I'm not sure we can keep it there for very long."

"What do you mean? What's going on out there?"

"The military just sent a whole battalion's worth of Sutherlands, they're _everywhere_!"

"Who sent them?" Ohgi asked as Nagata ran back to the truck and rummaged for something at the end of the trailer. "What are they here for?"

"I don't know who's behind this, our informants are still working on that." He surfaced with a large pair of bolt-cutters, and to these the cables binding the three now yielded immediately. His voice was grim when he continued: "The order was to destroy the Shinjuku ghetto."

Kallen wasn't able to hear much after that; it was hard to hear anything beyond the steady streams of bullets peppered every so often with blasts and screams. But strangely, even the voices of her comrades seemed muted to her now. It was as though a part of her simply refused to accept this information – that Britannia would go this far, that the military would actually push through with something as horrible as this. That they would blatantly commit _mass murder in broad daylight_ as though...

"We have to stay here. If we're lucky, they might not think to check the abandoned subways. It's our best chance of surviving this."

She didn't know if there was any point in them surviving at all, a small resistance cell suddenly cut off and powerless as the people they fought for died in scores. But then she remembered Naoto, and that they didn't fight for Shinjuku; they fought for Japan, and she clung to this thought and whispered it to herself like a mantra as most of the group erupted into chaos.

Kallen suddenly felt sick to her stomach when a darker thought sprouted in her mind: what if this was their fault? Maybe they never should have stolen that poison gas. Maybe...

Squeezing her eyes shut, she prayed again for a miracle. She didn't call out to anyone in particular, just wished with every fiber of her being that someone – some_thing_, _anything_ – could put an end to this horror. For whatever reason. No matter what it took.

But her desperate entreaty would go unanswered. Perhaps it would have never even been heard.

* * *

When he finally stepped out of the bathwater, it was only half an hour before midnight.

L.L. sent the clock a slightly despairing look as he yanked on the golden cord, allowing the bath to drain. Hot water, bubbles, and the hotel's own bath salts scented of old spice all swirled around and around until they were gone...and they took with them the traces of smoke and blood and everything from the Shinjuku ghetto that had clung to him from this afternoon.

He forced himself to draw in a breath. Another. _Another_.

No, he had not purged himself of everything after all; there was still _something_ there, and he didn't quite know what it was. But it was probably to blame for this restlessness, the erratic rhythm of his heartbeat.

L.L. crossed the bathroom in graceful, unhurried strides; the tiles beneath his feet were heated, after all, and there was no pressing need to be anywhere anytime soon. As always he found the stack of towels neatly folded atop black marble. He took one and dried himself with it thoroughly, as though he could rub away that trace of _whatever_ through a mix of stubbornness and soft Egyptian cotton. He couldn't, and he ended up simply reaching for the bathrobe as he hung the towel on a rack near the shower.

Standing in front of the full-length mirror, he caught a fleeting glimpse of the Geass sigil before drawing the bathrobe closed. He found himself pulling the belt into a double-knot and feeling at least some semblance of relief, but he could not explain why.

He unfolded another towel – even with this, there were three left over, and he could never quite figure out what the hotel's management expected him to do with so many – and began drying his hair. He didn't bother with a comb or any attempt to fix it; the heavens had blessed him with hair that many a woman had openly envied, straight and black as jet, a far cry from...

L.L. felt his hands slow to a halt when he realized where that thought was going, and he had to force himself to banish the slowly-building image of wild brown curls framing eyes that were so very green, so very innocent despite all the death they had surely witnessed. (Too late.)

He tossed the towel onto the counter and sighed. Was that what this was about, then? Was it _really_?

There was a TV in the bathroom; he had been watching the late-night news. He could no longer see it now, but he could hear what the reporters were discussing: how an initial gang war over local control of the illegal drug Refrain escalated into a bloodbath earlier today, with most of the residents in the Shinjuku ghetto having been caught in the crossfire. _"The Knight-police have been unable to provide a body count, but recently declared the situation to be stable. Nevertheless, travel to and from the Shinjuku ghetto has been severely restricted, with public buses and trains servicing the area re-routed until further notice. In other news, preparations are already underway for the Annual Summit of the Sakuradite-Producing Countries, which will be held – "_

L.L. scowled around his toothbrush, and all of a sudden the cool mint of the toothpaste seemed to give way to something unpleasant and bitter. A cover-story, he realized immediately, something to feed the media and pre-empt any investigation into the event that wasn't sanctioned by the Britannian authorities themselves. It wasn't half-bad. He might even have bought it for a moment, had he not _been there_ precisely when the flock of helicopters arrived, and scores of airlifted Sutherlands began their descent.

There was no gang war; somebody had given the order to wipe out the Shinjuku ghetto, and all the witnesses who could back this up were either dead or held on a firm leash by the Britannian military. Sealing off the ghetto ensured no outside interference as they cleaned up the scene; declaring no cause for worry to placate the Britannians in the Settlement was also a nice touch. Well played, he thought grimly. All bases covered, as expected of the great Empire.

He spat into the sink, marring the smooth porcelain. The inside of his mouth felt like ice when he rinsed it, but he supposed it was only apt.

This was what he knew: there had been a massacre at Shinjuku. And if the order for it had come from the Viceroy, Prince Clovis, he suspected he himself may have unwittingly played a part in causing all those deaths today.

_He awoke to the voices of the Royal Guard gradually drifting away. It took awhile before his hearing sharpened enough to make out what exactly they were saying, but before this he had slowly pulled himself to a sitting position and blinked, trying to clear his head of the pain and the darkness. _

_He caught the bullet as it fell, forced out of his chest; he could feel the wound closing and the telltale warmth of the metal seeping into his hand, and that was when his eyes finally focused and he saw the soldier's body lying face-down and motionless on the ground in front of him._

_It didn't take long for him to put the pieces together – the second gunshot, the way those men were now laughing as they strolled through the tunnel with their backs to him, unaware of his survival. Rather, his revival. _

_He understood the raw anger he felt upon coming to his senses; those bastards had _shot_ him, after all, shot him without a second thought, without even attempting to confirm his innocence. But he couldn't quite explain why this anger so suddenly gave way to a quiet, calculating malevolence when he saw that they had killed Suzaku as well. _

_(Part of him was trying to rationalize it already; perhaps it was the despicable way they murdered their own comrade, and were brazen enough to actually laugh about it. Perhaps it was because he was so young, and had lost his life in such a meaningless way. Perhaps it was because Suzaku had defended him, even after he...)_

_Whatever the reason, his hands were steady when he picked up the boy's assault rifle and walked slowly away._

_He didn't bother going out of his way to silence his footsteps; the men in front of him were too busy making their own racket, talking and laughing amongst themselves so loudly that they didn't notice him following them, barely dozens of meters away. _

"_I've been wanting to do that since the son of a bitch enlisted."_

"_He had it coming."_

"_Yeah. Who the hell did he think he was?"_

"_It's just too bad though. He was one of the better ones; we could've had fun with him first." _

"_Then by all means, go back there. I'm pretty sure his corpse won't mind." And the collective, sinister laughter that ensued echoed off the closed tunnel walls, creating an eerie kind of echo. _

_Not one of those officers protested the thought, and the realization was sickening when it finally sank in; these were the men who fed the festering cancer of Britannian colonial rule. It was these men who murdered civilians without so much as a blink, who looked down on non-Britannians and spared them not even a shred of basic human decency. It was because of these kinds of men that people like Suzaku, who were idealistic to a fault, who sincerely believed they could right the world's wrongs with a wish and a noble pursuit, were hopelessly doomed to fail. Or to wind up being shot in the back, dreams deferred. _

_And it dawned on him then that perhaps his initial outlook – thinking that he could just escape this madness and detach himself from it if he tried hard enough not to care too much – was only a bit less naive than that of one soldier now lying dead in the heart of these forsaken tunnels. _

_He saw the glimmer of light seeping in from the approaching exit before he even realized that he had made up his mind. _

_And just when the men were about fifty paces from the end of the tunnel, he stopped walking and broke his silence."Question!" _

_The Royal Guard had been trained, first and foremost, to protect Clovis la Britannia, and so the men's reaction time was quite impressive when they whirled around and reached for their guns. However, he was quite certain they _hadn't_ anticipated seeing a man the captain himself had just killed minutes prior, and as he leveled the assault rifle at them all he made full use of the several seconds he had bought with their shock. "Which do you think is more honorable? Shooting an ally in the back at point-blank range, or..." He clicked off the safety catch, and the sound rang ominously in the air. "Granting my murderers a few final moments to prepare for the inevitable?" _

_He sighed as he got each of the reactions he expected – some were frozen in terror, some threw up their hands, others opened their mouths and either screamed or tried to reason with him to put the rifle down. The captain made his way to the front and center of the group, and he apologized nervously for mistaking him for a terrorist (but security needed to be tight because Prince Clovis et cetera, et cetera.) How boring, he thought, as the man babbled on._

"_And what of you killing a Britannian soldier?" he demanded then. "Was _he_ a threat to the peace?"_

"_Ah, surely you recognized that he was only an Eleven? He would not have amounted to anything anyway."_

_By now the shock brought about by seeing him risen from the dead had begun to wear off; he saw the way some of the soldiers in the back had lowered their arms and were reaching discreetly for their firearms. But it was when the captain and a few of his men actually dared to chuckle that he felt his eyes narrow in contempt. _

"_The only ones who are allowed to kill," he said in a low voice, "are those who are prepared to _be_ killed."_

_He opened fire, and the dance was over long before it even began._

It was almost midnight, and Clovis would have surely learned of those nine officers' deaths by now.

What bothered him was the possibility that this may have been a trigger for the order to the destroy the ghetto. Government-sanctioned retaliation, after all, was not unheard of as an alternative to traditional counter-terrorism operations, although it was relatively rare and never this extreme. And of course Clovis would immediately suspect terrorists to be the culprits behind the murders of his precious Royal Guard.

It was mostly the sheer timing, of _everything_, that unnerved him. He had killed nine people today, emptied an assault rifle into nine screaming Britannian soldiers until they were dead before their bodies hit the floor. Hours later somebody higher up in the hierarchy ordered a massacre of Elevens, and the possibility that the first event influenced – or perhaps even caused? – the second one was at the very least disquieting.

But that much was only speculation, he had to remind himself. Until he knew all the facts, there was no way to be sure about any of it.

...Well, perhaps there was _one _facet of this situation that was beyond denial.

L.L. watched his hands and the way the water flowed, running down his palms and trickling beneath his fingers, ignoring the icy prickle as the red knob on the faucet remained untouched.

He defied the age-old cliche, it seemed; his hands did not suddenly seem to him drenched in unwashable scarlet, and nor did the faces of dead soldiers flash in his head as he glanced up at the mirror.

It was a strange feeling, having taken revenge for his own murder.

And Suzaku's, in a way, he added silently in afterthought. But then his pensiveness gave way to a small smile; they had meant to kill Suzaku, that much was for sure, but they hadn't done a very good job. Because when he'd returned to the boy – until now he wasn't certain why he bothered, but perhaps a part of him had wanted to offer his final respects for such a strange human being – upon looking closely he'd observed (among other, more curious things he was definitely _not _going to dwell on right now) the shallow rise and fall of his chest.

It was something L.L. sorely wished he had noticed sooner.

He was by no means an expert on the military's communication protocols and codes, but he knew enough to be able to piece together a request for an ambulance using Suzaku's own radio. And then he had been forced to wait an unforgivably long while before a vehicle that was definitely _not_ an ambulance crashed ungracefully through the tunnel wall, and a strange man with an unusual laugh mistook him for someone he was not as he promptly ordered his subordinates to place the boy on a stretcher. He knew he should have been more wary in practically handing the soldier over to such a curious character, but the man assured him he would fix the boy – 'fix' was the term he used, not 'treat' or even 'tend' – and that had been the end of that.

And he was surprised that he even cared.

L.L. scoffed as he wrenched the knob with more force than was absolutely necessary, killing the water flow in a heartbeat. He did _not_ care. He had known the boy for less than half an hour. And...

And in that tiny frame of time that unassuming boy had defied almost all of his predictions, one after another. An Eleven earnestly serving in the Britannian military. Who could _dodge gunfire_. A soldier with such a seemingly childish outlook on the world, who naively believed he could matter by wanting it hard enough.

One who had defended him, vouched for his innocence, showed him _kindness _even after L.L. spat on his dreams, crushed them and dared him to put them back together.

He smiled wryly at the thought. Suzaku had refused Geass as well, and this was the first time he knew of anyone who immediately rejected such an offer. Of course, there had been skeptics before, doubters who asked a thousand and one questions but it didn't matter because at the end of the day, they would still take it. He himself had been the same, and he thought then that perhaps everyone held an innate desire for power, or at least for _something _that wasn't possible to achieve on his own.

(C.C.'s _something_ had been love, genuine and unconditional love; his had been...)

L.L. clicked off the bathroom lights with a sigh that came out a bit more wistful than he would have liked.

That was all it was then, he thought to himself as he shuffled his feet into the waiting bedroom slippers and padded silently towards the ornate writing desk near the window. Suzaku was a strange, strange person in more ways than one, and he simply _intrigued _him. He would be lying if he said he didn't welcome it; after all, this was a refreshing change from observing people for decades and so very rarely having them actually surprise him. Geass or no, the realization that this boy did not fit into any of his structured patterns carefully crafted by logic and reason was a sobering, and yet fascinating one.

Suzaku had unwittingly pulled one last surprise on him today, L.L. thought as he opened his laptop's Internet browser and began to type. After the deaths of the Royal Guard, and the massive casualties from the massacre that followed...quite simply, the soldier was an anomaly to him every which way he looked, and would repay close study; it was remarkably convenient, then, that he _survived_.

* * *

When he heard the news, he knew he should have felt quite a number of things. But somehow, numbness was all that made it through.

Estimates of the death toll at Shinjuku were pouring in. But when he saw the numbers on the screen all he could really think of was how large they were. Abstract, simple numbers: the casualty count was so surprisingly large that it was meaningless, and he found that he could no longer fathom how many Elevens had died today.

He supposed he would look back on this day, if it ever came to that, and recall that _this_ was his deal-breaker. Because there used to be a time when each of those deaths, empty and completely without purpose, would have been avoidable. Of course, now that was no longer true, but nobody ever said it _had_ to be like this.

L.L. was either right or wrong. Odds were heavily in favor of the former, perhaps, but unless he put it to the test there was really no way of finding out.

So when he finally left the A.S.E.E.C.'s trailer, the sky was pitch-black and the air was frigid, and Kururugi Suzaku had the manual of the Z-01: Lancelot in his hands.

* * *

Notes for Chapter 2:

- As I mentioned last chapter, there are some events from the canon timeline that will still appear because they remain unaffected by Lelouch being yanked from his time and plopped in front of C.C. forty years prior. And then there are _other_ events that will take place regardless of L.L.'s involvement anyway; these are the 'knots' in the tapestry, and I believe the massacre at Shinjuku (and, consequently, Ohgi's resistance cell surviving it) is one of them. In the anime, the cover-story for the massacre was that the 'poison gas' was released in the middle of Shinjuku, but I'm not too certain how much everyone bought it. At the very least, Lloyd and Cécile did.

- L.L. lives in opulence because I imagine playing chess for money is a lot more lucrative when you don't have to rush back to school after your lunch break. I'm basing the design of his hotel room off a real hotel; in Stage 06, when I describe it in more detail, I'll let you know which one it is.

- I'm deliberately not following the canon pacing, so Suzaku gets to play with the Lancelot _next_ chapter, not this one. Which means more writing-about-robots-fighting, something I'm still trying to get the hang of. No time like the present to learn, I suppose.

Anyway, thanks so much to those who reviewed the first chapter!

**kyouruhi24** – Trust me, it isn't only you; not only is 'L.L.' rather awkward to type, but whenever I start a paragraph with 'L.L.' OpenOffice seems to think I'm creating a bulleted Roman-numeral list and formats the next paragraph to start with 'L.L.I.' It was funny the first few times, but recently I've gotten to typing 'Lulu' and just hitting the replace-all feature at the very end. But I do miss calling him by name. I plan this story, the analog to Season 1, to run for 25 chapters (one per 'Stage'), and the eventual pairing is LuluSuzu: Lelouch/L.L. as the _seme_, and Suzaku as the _uke_.

**fra** – Suzaku won't be getting the Geass for quite some time, because even with L.L. dangling it like a carrot in front of his nose he would still be too stubborn to take it, lol. But it's in the cards...just not right away. And you're right, it's definitely _not _going to be the same as Lelouch's Geass, not by a long shot.

**Tainted Ink And Paper**** –** Wow, thank you so much. Your words flatter me, truly; I can only hope the succeeding chapters (including this one) can clear the bar I seem to have set with the opening. Ah, the joy of longfics.

**Mystra-chan06** – New best friend! (happy dance) Yeah, I _really _hope the quality of everything I do from now on matches or exceeds that of chapter 1, but till then I'm glad you approve.

**Zio Charmed**** –** Thanks, hope you like it so far!

**AstralSight** – Thank you. Hope I'll see you around for quite some time?

**Yamiro**** –** Oh, Marianne and Nunnally are _definitely_ going to be around. Marianne might take a looong while to show up, but Nunnally is...just four or five chapters away (big grin). It's been a long time since I last checked out the sound episodes, but if I recall correctly Clovis went to Area 11 being told two of his half-siblings 'died' there. I...really don't want to risk spoiling anything more at this point, so I'll just hint that 'one for two isn't so bad.' =)

**Candelabra** – Y halo thar anon! It really is an awesome prompt, and I do wonder if the OP who requested it is happy with the way I'm taking it so far. Nevertheless, I'm enjoying it a lot more than I'd thought I would. I love you too ~ !

**MithLuin**** –** The scenes in the anime where they worked together – 'rescuing' Arthur (although it was Suzaku who did most of the work; Lelouch flailed and fell like a damsel in distress), outsmarting Mao, taking down Sawasaki's group, and everything post R2-21 – were some of my favorites of the whole series. And I do agree completely with how you've interpreted the tapestry concept; the catch is just picking which events fall into which category, and hoping that my choices sound logically reasonable.

**skepsis66** – Thank you! For all his issues (and angsting about said issues), I believe Suzaku is still a very strong person; he probably just doesn't realize it, what with all his self-loathing getting in the way all the time.

**Koneko-Hiruka**** –** Thanks, I appreciate it!

**Spunkay Skunk** – I've actually outlined the next five or so chapters in my head; it's just the chapters between then and the end, plus of course the execution of everything-everything-everything, that's left to be done. I love that you notice the little things, most of which have me scrambling for the Code-Geass-wiki every few keystrokes or so, haha. I find Suzaku to be such a fascinating character (I think I've told you this), which is probably why I enjoy writing him so much. L.L. doesn't come easily though, as you've noticed. It takes a lot more effort for me to sort-of 'get into his head', what with the way he analyzes everything and comes up with scenarios and deconstructs even the most trivial of details. I don't think like that at all, not like _he_ does, so it's a bit of a challenge for me. But, I just hope I get better as the fic progresses!

**Sam-Sam-Samedi –** Oh, Lelouch isn't giving away his Code (yet). 58 is, as you said, a bit young for that, so the way I have him now is at the tail-end of his 'testing the waters' phase, like when he wasted who-knows-how-many uses of Geass in canon to get a sense of all its little intricacies. This is a similar motivation, and while it's definitely not the most _responsible _of actions, to be fair he doesn't really give out Geass like candy either. Yes, he's made just a few contracts since obtaining the Code, and they were mostly given to people who (in his mind) needed a game changer right-then-right-there – for example, how he thought Suzaku was a goner for sure once they hit that wall. Others (a tiny fraction) had deeper reasons behind them, but at this point I can't say any more without spoiling a major three- or four-chapter arc coming in the near future, so I'll just have to get back to you on that. (Off-topic: In the real world, Suzaku would look more Britannian / of-Western-descent than Lelouch. Lol. And he would've needed to be really lucky to get green eyes considering Genbu's are brown and his mom's are....wait, do we know anything about his mom?)

**CGRD –** Wow, thanks very much!

**Meshik –** Swapping-things-out (and then, subsequently going over the narrative in nail-biting obsession to make sure I didn't violate causality or some such thing) is admittedly one of the more challenging aspects of this fic, so I really appreciate that you mentioned it!

**Whitefleur –** The premise was really an intriguing one, and was a major reason for me taking on this project. I'm glad you like it so far.

And of course, a shout-out to the anons who left their feedback on the kinkmeme, which is where the prompt for this project was born =).

I had hoped to upload this chapter over the weekend, but then an unexpected amount of schoolwork and my own discontentment with the way a couple of scenes had been shaping up at the time put a damper on that. So here it is on a Wednesday afternoon (where I live) instead. I do apologize for the added wait, and on that note would like to inform everyone that update times for succeeding chapters will be variable. It all depends on the amount of real-life work I have to do at any given time, really, but do know that I am enthusiastic about this project and will be working on it whenever free time opens itself up to me.

Anyway, thanks for reading this chapter. I hope you all enjoyed it, and I really would appreciate hearing what you think. The 'Review' link – it beckons, no? =)


	3. Stage 03: Nightrider Charges

Disclaimer: _Code Geass_ – with its characters, settings, and all other borrowed elements here – is the sole property of its creators. I do this purely for my own entertainment, and (hopefully) that of my readers as well.

Opening lines of this chapter are taken from Linkin Park's _New Divide._

Warnings for this chapter: Same as the previous two. References to darker themes continue, and are starting to become a bit more blatant, but still relatively mild. Also, long/highly-technical chapter is long/highly-technical (giant robots oh my, oh yes).

Enjoy!

* * *

Less than an hour shy of sunrise and the sky was still choked in smoke and ashes.

The roads twining through what had once been Shinjuku were severely damaged. Shells from Knightmare-class firearms left pock marks as big as manholes, and every few blocks fallen buildings and rubble would close them off entirely. But the ghetto was practically a graveyard now, a ruined grid swathed in gray and red, even the shadows from the pitiful light motionless.

If they didn't know better, they would have thought the sight apocalyptic. But they _did _know better, and one glimpse of the aftermath – a quick, inevitable survey once the gunfire stopped and the last divisions finally left – was enough for them all to christen the relative darkness of the trailer as a practical sanctuary.

"This isn't going to work. They're never going to..."

None of the other five resistance members currently huddled at the very back of the trailer bothered to ask Tamaki to finish his train of thought. It wasn't hard to tell where it was going, and the way the truck was forced to make detour after detour only prolonged the tense anticipation as they sat here, waiting.

One roadside bomb would finish them all. Or one Britannian platoon that had stayed behind, one Sutherland; it would take so very little to end their campaign, and then _eight _would be added to the death tally, but would that really make much of a difference?

"It's sooner than we wanted, but we don't have a choice," Kallen finally dared to break the silence. "Now that the ghetto's been demolished, they'll have no reason to keep that depot there. If we don't act now, they might move it closer to the Settlement, and by then it'll be impossible to pull this off."

"You don't think it's impossible _now_?"

"What's the worst that could happen?"

"They could kill us all!"

"After last night? They may as well."

The ominous thought hung in the air unchallenged for several more minutes before the trailer began to slow down. The door on the other side slid open, and another man made his way carefully to the group, his steps slow and his back pressed against an inner wall. "Nagata says we're just a few minutes away. Who wants to make the approach?"

Nobody spoke for a long while.

"Shouldn't you be the one?" Kallen finally ventured. "You're our leader after all."

"Even so, I'm not exactly very good at..." Ohgi trailed off and eventually sighed, casting a weary glance at each of his followers. "Tamaki, you can do it. Inoue, go with him. Keep him in check."

No violent outburst followed those instructions, and no witty, well-meaning banter ensued as it was wont to. There was only that silence, heavy and absolute, as they prepared for their mission with a unanimous acknowledgment that was both sober and numb. Rifles were loaded, maps and radios and spare ammunition tucked anywhere convenient. The pair who had been assigned the dubious charge sported opaque visors that covered half of their faces as they waited by the trailer doors, armed and pensive.

A well-aimed kick forced the doors open before the truck could even come to a complete stop.

(A couple of hours later, a tiny room in the first floor of the barracks miles away still smelled faintly of blood, and sweat, and something else. The soldier, its sole occupant, lay face-down on the cot with his limbs tangled in the sheets, not quite asleep; it was only when he realized that the shrill ringing was _not_ coming from his alarm clock that he finally dared to move.)

* * *

**.**

_I remembered black skies_

_The lightning all around me_

_I remembered each flash_

_As time began to blur_

_Like a startling sign_

_That fate had finally found me_

_And your voice was all I heard_

**.**

**Bird's-Eye View**

Stage 03

**. : Nightrider Charges : .**

Britannia was always thorough with her every conquest, in more ways than one. She would not stop with subjugating the local government, or even at annexing the territory itself. She was never satisfied until her ideals, fueled by either the endless propaganda or smiling soldiers armed to the teeth, permeated every facet of her host. It would take only several years before the latter resembled its conqueror: age-old traditions discarded, dialects forgotten, children taught early on to speak in a foreign tongue and sing, "_Hoist your swords high into the clouds, hail Britannia!_" with their hands over their hearts.

And even then, it still wouldn't be over. Not because Britannia was wanting for force – what were the ghettoes but testament to the contrary, after all? – but because for all her ruthlessness and fervor, she was still not quite as omnipotent as she would have liked.

Because of that, at least this one place, carefully secluded and far enough away from Tokyo to be safe (for now), was still clearly Japanese. The wooden floor was gleaming, scrubbed daily along the grain and the length of the planks lining the room from end to end. The sliding doors were of tough paper braced with bamboo, and a flag of the rising sun – one of the last, as the rest had been burned or buried in the days following the nation's surrender – hung proudly on the wall.

This room in particular was bare of any furniture, but otherwise packed with remnants of what had once been the proud Japanese military.

"What...? Are you _sure_? For all you know, that could be – " There was a frantic protest on the other end of the line, and it was audible enough to the soldiers circling the seated man even as he kept the phone pressed to his ear. "All right. I understand. Keep me updated."

The air in the room felt thick with unsung tension as the connection was severed with a click. The man set the phone down onto the floor beside him, his brow creased and adding to the lines carved permanently into his face. The years had not been kind to him, but General Katase, who had served under the late Prime Minister and now led the largest anti-colonial movement in the Area, had never expected anything else.

"This is the situation." The man's voice was like gravel when he finally spoke, his features flat and grim. "It seems the Sutherland service depot at the edge of the Settlement was hijacked early this morning. The perpetrators are being backed by a number of survivors from the ghetto, but just how many is still difficult to ascertain."

A low murmur spread radially outward like ripples on a pond. "This wasn't in any of our plans at all! Whose group made the move?"

"They're not one of ours. Apparently it's Ohgi's cell, from Shinjuku."

It took awhile before recognition dawned upon the soldiers surrounding him, and even then it was evidently lacking. Most of these men were only vaguely familiar with localized pockets of resistance that weren't officially affiliated with the Japanese Liberation Front. He recalled that this group did indeed operate in the Shinjuku area, and that once upon a time it had been led by one Kouzuki Naoto; he was a promising, albeit young, rebel whose eyes would burn with unbridled ferocity whenever he spoke of his dreams, of freeing their motherland.

More than once he had petitioned the JLF to formally allow his team into their ranks. But they had been a young group then, far too young. The demand to show what they could actually bring to the table was then, and even now, really not an unreasonable one.

Naoto had known very well that he had to prove himself. He died trying.

"That's preposterous," came the immediate protest. "What could they possibly be using as leverage?"

Katase told them, and after he did so the room was in immediate uproar.

"It's brilliant!" Kusakabe, a heavyset moustached man with eyes like beads, was brimming with excitement. "I say we send them whatever help they might need right away!"

But, "It's foolhardy," another disagreed with a shake of his head. "They're probably not going to succeed, and the potential fallout would be catastrophic. We don't want to get caught up in anything that can be this _messy_."

Katase heaved a ragged sigh, with the kind of resignation only a long-serving soldier – one who had witnessed more bloodshed than laughter – could possess. "What do you think, Tohdoh?"

Every pair of eyes swiveled in unison to rest on the shadowy figure bearing that name. He was kneeling on a raised square platform, and the flag hung above him, almost as though he carried this forsaken country's legacy, and future, upon his shoulders.

But far-fetched as that thought seemed, it was not a complete impossibility. This man was, after all, the same Tohdoh Kyoshiro from Itsukushima, and those who still clung to the dream of a free Japan would often relive and retell the miracles he had performed there. The brilliance and level-headed defiance he had shown their conquerors as the rest of the nation crumbled to ash had turned him into a legend overnight.

Tohdoh raised his head ever so slightly then, a deep frown etched onto his hardened face. Before him, the strict steel of a sheathed _katana_; he was rarely ever seen without his sword, so much so that by now the weapon was somewhat an extension of the colonel himself. The silence reigned long and heavy before he finally spoke. "At this point it's too early to say for sure how this is going to turn out. They make a very reckless gamble, and while it goes without saying that they could use our help, it would be too much of a risk to involve ourselves this early on."

"Even after the massacre?" Kusakabe said angrily.

"_Especially _after the massacre," Tohdoh replied, and sent him a closed look that immediately silenced everyone who might have shared the man's sentiments.

The old general nodded his agreement as his soldiers turned to him for the final verdict. He understood well enough how these men were all filled with bloodlust after the Britannian military's sheer barbarism at Shinjuku yesterday. Those had been civilians, many of them _children_, and he himself would have been more than happy to see heads roll the moment he heard the news. But he also knew that any immediate, hasty actions on their part would only invoke an angrier, more ruthless response. Publicly sanctioning the efforts of Ohgi's group would not be much different at all, and Katase doubted they were in any shape to engage Britannia in that way as of this time.

There was nothing more that needed to be said after that, and when the grumbles of begrudging assent began to fill the room, he spared the quiet colonel an unseen glance. The latter had his eyes downcast and was lost in thought, with his hands clenched into loose fists on his thighs. This was his right-hand man, and if ever the hopes of an entire nation had to be the burden of a sole person, he could think of no-one better to fulfill the role.

But the man known far and wide as _Kiseki no Tohdoh_ was a careful strategist before he was a miracle-worker, and so for those who had been sorely awaiting a repeat of Itsukushima – sadly, himself included – it seemed they would have to wait a bit more.

* * *

It felt strange, not reporting to his unit commander for the first time in years. But even if A.S.E.E.C. itself was an irregular division and not formally part of the military's hierarchy, apparently Lloyd Asplund outranked all of his immediate superiors in terms of nobility. Not that it should have mattered, but Suzaku had learned long ago that as far as Britannia was concerned sometimes such things were interchangeable.

"Private Kururugi, there you are!" The scientist leapt to his feet with a sudden liveliness that was rather enviable this early in the morning. "For a moment there I was beginning to think you wouldn't show up at all."

"I'm sorry about that," he said, sheepishly rubbing the back of his head. The action suddenly brought the existence of a recent, nasty bruise in that area to the forefront of his memory, and he barely suppressed a wince. "I came here straight away, but this place...ah, it was a bit hard to find."

He injected a rueful note at the end, and offered a winsome smile. But truth be told the A.S.E.E.C.'s headquarters had truly been damn elusive, especially since he'd sought this place out on foot. Around half of the personnel he'd tried asking for directions had no idea what he was talking about, and since between now and last night he _still _didn't quite know what exactly A.S.E.E.C. stood for, by seven in the morning he'd received about as many glares and 'stupid Eleven' variants as he would have by noon on a good day.

It was an unassuming sight at first glance, a nondescript two-storey structure of white cement, steel and tinted glass. Two steps inside the unmarked sliding doors and one was immediately greeted with the sight of gleaming metal walls, the whirr and whine of curious little machines and everywhere, everywhere, people milling about with dress uniforms and shiny black boots. The identical green armbands seemed to afford their wearers a bit of slack from the stiff formality he was used to, the rigid spines and snappy salutes and careful, guarded eyes from the rest of his platoon. But then he remembered that these people were scientists, and a part of him wondered idly how much difference there was between those who fire weapons, and those who build them.

"Ah, Suzaku!" Cécile's voice snapped him out of his reverie, and he looked up just in time to see her jogging their way. "I'm glad you made it. I'm sorry this is all on such short notice, but we've gone ahead with all the preliminary checks and..." She paused and regarded him with a hint of concern, and again the honesty there was quite alien to him. "How's your wound? Have you eaten?"

"I'm fine," he assured her, although by now he did wonder why he had been summoned here. They had parted at midnight after she kindly dropped him off at the barracks, with a mutual agreement to meet this afternoon for a possible simulation run – maybe even a field test, if he was lucky – with the Lancelot.

So he was at a loss as to why his day had started with an unexpected phone call at 5:59 in the morning. 'Number withheld,' the screen had said, but the enthusiastic '_Congratulations!'_ that assaulted his ear startled him until he was alert enough to process the urgent request to report to the A.S.E.E.C.'s headquarters as soon as humanly possible. (He no longer bothered to ask how Lloyd had gotten a hold of his personal phone number so quickly; he'd given up a lot of things upon joining the military, and as it was privacy had been one of the first to go.)

Cécile checked her watch. "We still have around fifteen minutes until the engineers finish their report. Maybe I could make – "

"No time!" Lloyd suddenly cut in, a bit too quickly as he grabbed the boy by the wrist and tossed away the papers in his other hand with glee. He strode purposefully towards a set of doors leading out of this common area, and Suzaku stumbled a bit before catching on, matching the scientist's pace more out of instinct than actual comprehension. "We're already a bit behind schedule, and I suppose a situation as volatile as this can very quickly – oh, or quite _literally_, I should say – blow up in our faces if we don't _chop-chop!_" He could still hear the grin in the scientist's voice when he twirled his arm in the air, gesturing to his assistant. "Coming?"

But he didn't need to, and she was at their heels in an instant.

"Wait," Suzaku protested feebly, glancing around in a futile attempt to at least familiarize himself with the surroundings. The floor beneath them now was made of vented, interlocking metal plates, and the resulting _clang-clang-clang_ of their footsteps was testament to Lloyd's excitement. People stepped aside dutifully as the three of them cut a torrid, twisting path through corridor and mezzanine. "This 'situation'...I thought...that is, I don't understand – "

Cécile stopped in her tracks just as they reached a looming set of double doors, 'Restricted Access Only' emblazoned in large red letters across the wall above. She pressed the folder she had been holding to her face, the top edge touching the bridge of her nose and underscoring the mixed surprise and embarrassment in her eyes. "Oh my."

"_Aha!_" Lloyd's eyes glittered beneath the frames as he punched an absurdly long code into the panel beside the doors. "Amazing how it completely slipped my mind, that you have _no _idea why you're here!"

"The Knight-police were the first to find out." He barely heard Cécile's voice from behind as the doors hissed open. "We ourselves didn't learn of the situation until almost an hour later. And by the time we did..."

"The terrorists had already established their position." Lloyd adjusted his glasses with a smile at the questioning look thrown his way. "There's a situation at the service depot on the border of the Settlement and Shinjuku. It was taken over by a group of Eleven terrorists this morning, apparently chatteled in a forty-foot container disguised to mimic the military's own delivery trucks." He spoke candidly, as though they were discussing sports figures instead of outlaws. "It was a very clean operation through and through. Oh, and there weren't many personnel stationed at that hour, but those that _were_, well...they're being held hostage now."

"With what?"

Lloyd flung his arms outward, and a twisted, inappropriate kind of enthusiasm rolled off of him in waves. "Poison gas!" he exclaimed. "Who would have thought?!"

Suzaku tried his best not to think too much about the implications of that, not to dwell (that those were the terrorists from yesterday, _his countrymen_, that if he hadn't made the mistake of going after L.L. first, maybe he could have stopped them, stopped _this_). And – "Near...near Shinjuku?" he stammered.

"Mm-hmm." If Lloyd noticed the trepidation in his voice, he did not show it. "As of our latest update it seems Lord Gottwald and a squadron of Knight-police have been deployed to the general area _buuuut_ they're posted at a ridiculous distance and truth be told nobody wants to touch this operation with a ten-foot pole. Knightmare cockpits aren't exactly airtight, and you can't possibly expect pilots to wear gas masks without slashing their efficiency rating in half."

"Besides that, the military is wary of using foot soldiers for this operation because...well..."

Cécile hedged on the end of her sentence, but Suzaku nodded. "I understand," he told her. Foot soldiers were Honorary Britannians, which meant they couldn't be trusted without a dozen Britannian officers breathing down their necks. (It was degrading, but that was the way it was.) "So, um...if I may ask, what does this have to do with me?"

"Everything!" Another locked set of doors stood in their way, and Lloyd punched in a different code to clear it with a flourish. "Since he doesn't want to risk the lives of his precious knights _or_ gamble on Eleven soldiers who could very well turn on us, the Third Prince has formally requested the assistance of the Advanced Special Envoy Engineering Corps. Which means..." So _that _was what it stood for. "Congratulations!! Without even a field test in the books, you have just been cleared to pilot the Lancelot for its first mission!"

Suzaku wasn't quite sure what to call the undignified sound that came from the back of his throat – something like a gasp and something else that felt a bit like choking – when comprehension dawned. "So...I am going to...?"

Lloyd was paying no heed whatsoever to his new pilot, his lackey for the day. They had entered what seemed to be a supply room, and the man was busy chattering to himself as he yanked open drawers and cabinet doors ("...this, this, hmmm _definitely_ this!...") and surfaced with several wrapped bundles and small boxes. But Cécile placed a hand on his shoulder – Lloyd's eccentricity was a lightning rod for his attention, so much that it was regrettably easy to forget the woman was even _here –_ and gave him a meaningful look.

"The hazards are undeniably great, but we'll take every possible precaution to minimize them. But as well," she broke into a smile, "the rewards are proportionally great if you succeed, so think of it in that light!"

"That," Lloyd quipped, "and the fact that the Britannians won't mind sending an Eleven into a potentially one-way – "

"Lloyd!"

"It's all right," he said. There was a note of surety in his voice, and he wasn't so certain how it got there, but he understood fully well now what was being required of him. "I don't mind. Please, let me take this mission."

"Hmmm." They had left the supply room and were now standing in front of the polished, almost mirror-like surface of the hallway's elevator doors. Lloyd lowered his cargo ever so slightly and bent down, so that he could peer straight into the soldier's eyes. "Quite an intense one, aren't you? And so very young, at that. I think you'll make for a very _interesting _part."

Suzaku blinked. "Part?"

But the scientist was already calling to his assistant from over the boy's shoulder. "I told you so! Now you owe me fifty pounds, one lump sum please!" he declared, punctuating that with a giddy, childish sort of laugh.

Cécile looked sullen. "But I never even agreed to that wager..." she was mumbling when the doors opened with a loud _ding!_

As soon as they were inside and the car began rolling up, Lloyd wasted no time dumping the packages into Suzaku's hands. "_This_ should fit just right. We took the liberty of checking your file but it shouldn't matter anyway, you'll see what I mean. Oh, and shoes – I will not have you christening the Lancelot in those filthy combat boots. _This_...ah, wait, this is mine. Haha. Here!" He tore open one of the small boxes and withdrew a small communicator. "Won't be able to use it here, but as soon as you're out it should work like a charm!"

"Um. Thanks." His head was spinning, in more ways than one, and while he knew he really ought to be thinking all of these things through a bit more, he had no idea where to _start_. The terrorists he had spared yesterday now threatened countless people's lives with the stolen poison gas canister. He was being deployed to diffuse the situation (how?) and he was going to pilot a real Knightmare, _he was going to pilot a real Knightmare _and that last thought sent his heart racing with something _other _than fear, and blotted out everything else so that he barely noticed the scientist insistently plastering the communicator every which way into the left side of his face.

"Oh, wrong ear!" he eventually realized. Grinning stupidly, he rectified his mistake. It fit snugly now, Cécile smiling at him the whole time, and he couldn't identify what that was – assurance, maybe? - in her crinkled eyes.

The doors parted and treated him to a very different sight. This floor, whatever it was, resembled a bridge, with monitors lining the walls and matched against instrument panels manned by more orange-clad personnel. The two scientists stepped out, and he was just about to follow them when Lloyd twirled around and shoved him right back into the elevator.

"What – ?"

"Sorry to have dragged you around like this, but that _was_ the path of least action!" He chuckled openly at the boy's confusion before leaning back into the car and pressing the lowermost button – '000'. "The boys down there will show you what to do from here on, but you should already have everything you need."

"Down there?" he parroted. He felt stupid for realizing just now that the facility extended underground, but he'd never imagined just how far it did so. Was the Lancelot still _here_?

The scientist straightened up and flashed him a smirk, as though reading his mind. "Five minutes, Private Kururugi," was all he said, and he was barely able to finish before the doors fused shut once more. A thick, imposing silence flooded the elevator car as it began its rapid descent, and Suzaku swallowed back his heart and tried very hard not to smile.

* * *

Five hundred meters: this was the distance set between the captured depot and the group of Sutherlands that had been dispatched as a knee-jerk response from the local government early this morning. The proud machines formed a semicircle tracing the invisible boundary from the Settlement's side, two dozen Knightmares around seventy meters apart with factspheres glittering in the sunlight. At the center of the formation, Jeremiah Gottwald stood with his cockpit hatch open and a pair of binoculars hiding his glare. Behind them lay the rest of the Tokyo Settlement, slowly coming to life to greet the new day.

It was like walking on a tightrope, this tense, careful stalemate. Prince Clovis' camp had promised severe repercussions for anyone who leaked the details of this situation to the media, so of course no-one was talking. Of course, they could only send so many units, because any more would arouse suspicion. It was bad enough that they had been ordered to stay put and prevent entry into the area they were guarding as much as possible; it was deemed too risky to order a full-scale evacuation, not when the terrorists _still_ hadn't made any new contact or set forth their demands.

And then there was always that possibility nobody wanted to consider aloud, that the terrorists could simply follow through with their threats and release the poison gas. Five hundred meters was the closest they could come to keep a close eye on the depot, and retain some semblance of usefulness in case it _did _come down to that – one radio message to the rest of the Knight-police waiting with bated breath, and they could evacuate all major regions of the Settlement faster than the diffusing gas could reach them. Maybe. (They all hoped the numbers were correct.)

In the hemisphere between their line and the depot: one residential area, a small shopping district, a steel plant and other factories for a handful of similar industries – these would all have to be sacrificed in that worst-case scenario. For what it was worth, the area was almost self-sufficient: a hasty survey of the population hours prior informed them that not many people who worked in this region lived elsewhere, and vice-versa. Still, it was a dismal prospect, and there would be hell to pay in the days that followed, but there wasn't much of a choice now that chemical warfare was thrown into the picture.

The knights who were currently carrying out this unusual operation were inevitably on edge, each one feeling (wishing) that he should not be so idle, so useless. So it was almost a relief when a Britannian civilian appeared from behind the nearest building – a warehouse for a pharmaceutical company – and moved to cross the invisible line from there.

"Sir, the area beyond this line is currently off-limits due to an ongoing Knightmare field test." Only a half-truth, but the same alibi had worked for all of the civilians who had previously attempted to cross, and so the officer holding the megaphone continued on: "We apologize for the inconvenience, but we're going to have to ask you to either turn back or wait until we've cleared the area."

If the initial surprise of spotting the man was a welcome one (if nothing, it was a break from the monotony of all this mindless waiting), the downright panic that ensued from his response was definitely _not_, as he merely passed the border without preamble and broke into a run the moment he cleared it.

"Sir!"

"Hold your fire!" Jeremiah yelled hoarsely, as rifles were mounted and aimed with impressive timing. "Remember the protocol. Britannian citizens must be given the benefit of the doubt!"

The cockpit of the Sutherland to his left hissed open, and its pilot's long, sideswept ponytail glimmered like silver as it caught the light. "Then with all due respect," she said, "what do we do, Lord Jeremiah?"

The latter wore a conflicted expression for a few seconds, bearing his teeth in something that was certainly not a smile. As ridiculous as this whole situation already was, they definitely did not need something like _this _making it even more so.

"You," he called out and pointed a finger at the Sutherland nearest the man. "Go after that civilian and apprehend him peacefully."

"Yes, my lord." And as the Knightmare dashed forward the rest adjusted themselves accordingly, quick and efficient as only the military could be.

But the simple task of collecting the wayward civilian turned out to be much harder than it should have been. The man was not a particularly fast runner – quite the contrary, really, as his pace was unhurried and more suited to that of a slow jog – but the route he took involved covered walkways and narrow alleys between buildings, where a Knightmare could not fit. Maddeningly, the man made use of _all_ such avenues possible, and the unit in pursuit, forced to detour every few seconds, was hardly able to chip away at the man's headstart at all.

When he was finally able to corner his target, at a dead-end between an abandoned warehouse and chain-link fence, they were out of sight of the rest of the knights. And the lieutenant piloting the Sutherland was at just about the limit of his patience.

"Hands in the air!" he snapped irritably, wondering what in the world this person had been thinking, leading him into this pointless chase. As the civilian moved to obey, he adjusted the camera linked to his factsphere to zoom in on his features. He looked to be no more than a teenager, fair-skinned and with dark hair framing impassive eyes. "Who are you?"

"My name is Alan Spencer," the boy promptly replied, and his Britannian was flawless and crisp, with just the slightest hint of an accent (French?) he could not quite place. "My father's a duke. But if you don't want to take my word for it, my ID card is in my left breast-pocket."

_Nobility_. The lieutenant felt some of his irritation dissolve, and he breathed a sigh of relief as he realized how fortunate it had been – for both of them – that he hadn't fired on the boy when he had the chance. "Why did you ignore the order to stay back? It's dangerous here!"

"I understand now, and I apologize. Then, as soon as you confirm my identity, I'd like to request your protection."

Throughout all of Britannia, as well as its numerous colonies, it was considered an honor to personally guard a noble or his next of kin in situations like these, and especially so if the request came directly from the person himself. So the lieutenant did not hesitate to power down his system and exit the frame, his mind more focused on the potential rewards (and the envy of his peers) rather than the fact that this boy had not answered his question at all.

"Keep your hands where they are, please," he said in a much more civil tone. As soon as his feet hit the ground, he withdrew a pistol and pointed it at the boy's chest (a formality of sorts – he did not even bother to disengage the safety catch at all) as he approached. "I will be the one to retrieve your ID. Is that understood?"

The boy smiled. "Of course."

He returned the smile out of politeness. One could not affort to be anything else to nobility, after all.

And this was the part he would never be able to explain to his superiors. Because as soon as he grasped the front of the boy's jacket, everything – the boy himself, the fence, the building, the entirety of his surroundings – inexplicably _vanished._ In their place came disturbing visions that seemed to flash in his mind, one after another: of a sea of children chanting an eerie psalm, of figures that were little more than _shadows_ marching slowly towards something in the distance, of human skulls and a passage ringing in his ears, a threat.

_He watched a pair (of lovers?) locked in a tight embrace, surrounded by flowers and an endless sky, and the woman smiled and slid an arm down only to withdraw a dagger and promptly plunge it into her partner's back – _

When the hapless lieutenant finally regained his senses, he was on his hands and knees, staring at the ground as his heart thundered in his chest. His pistol was gone. And so was his Sutherland.

* * *

By the time his five minutes ran out and an officer popped his head into the room long enough to inform him that 'everything' was ready, Suzaku found it a bit difficult to breathe. And he wasn't sure whether to blame the excitement (nerves – a bit of those as well, and a restlessness that thrummed across his veins) or the fact that his flight suit was _tight_.

It clung to him like a second skin, tracing out lines of light muscle and bone. He wondered briefly if the bandages around his torso would be a problem, but the material was accommodating enough. At his feet, his old uniform lay in a rumpled heap, and he stared at the body armor and helmet and suddenly felt very, very vulnerable in this new ensemble. But then he recalled how things had changed, and _where_ he was going to be in a few minutes' time, and that being cocooned within the heart of a massive war machine was a huge leap from simply strapping on a layer of kevlar.

Perhaps it came with years of conditioning from the military, but even now it was so easy to doubt the reality of all this.

There was a short beep, followed by a familiar voice muffled just ever so slightly by the communicator. "Radio-check. Radio-check. Suzaku?"

"_10-28_," he replied without thinking, only realizing his mistake when he noticed belatedly how he had been addressed. "Loud and clear, Miss Cécile," he amended with a smile.

"Ah, wonderful. I can hear you perfectly as well." The tip with the receiver built in sat rather deep in his ear, and this way even Lloyd's voice was faintly audible as he rattled off orders shrilly in the background. "Were you able to read the manual?"

"Most of it." He had been poring over the document almost as soon as he'd arrived at his quarters, fascinated by the innovations used in building the machine, how numerous and how extreme. Although he did not understand most of the technical jargon, it had still been quite an entertaining read (it was written by _Lloyd _after all.) And he had just been about to start on the last section when he was rudely interrupted by –

Suzaku shook his head; he didn't have to think about it if he didn't want to, and he pulled on his gloves.

"Well done." In his hand, the short plastic chain now looped through his finger, sat the key to the Lancelot. The golden finish made the instrument glint, even in this dim light. "Are you absolutely sure about this? I wouldn't ask if it were a field test, but with the poison gas – "

"It's fine, Miss Cécile. If I back out at this point, it would reflect poorly on the developing team and might cast A.S.E.E.C. as a whole in a negative light. Surely you can't let all your hard work on the Lancelot go to waste like that."

"That's all true. But..." She trailed off long enough for him to make out Lloyd's singsong _'I told you soooo!'_ to his assistant. "I'm not quite certain you understand fully the risks involved in this mission."

"I'm aware of all those." He fisted the device in his hand and gave the back of the room a final glance before starting towards the door. "But, all things considered, I was as good as dead if it hadn't been for you and Sir Lloyd. So really, I don't mind."

His footsteps were a thoughtful, leisurely rhythm against the silence of the room, but once he opened the door they were rendered inaudible. The grinding of gears and beeps from countless computers set up everywhere, the purr of motors and the hiss of their machines' pneumatics assaulted his ears in a strange, chaotic symphony. But perhaps all this mayhem was a better match to the current state of his psyche.

The same officer was waiting for him, and with a quick gesture motioned for the boy to follow him. As they wove through tangles of cables and around spare parts, he couldn't help but notice the way most, if not all, of the other personnel stared at him as they passed by. Not that he hadn't anticipated this, as the flight suit was a dead giveaway and he was fairly certain all of these men had been well-briefed.

But what intrigued him was _how_ they regarded him. There was no resentment or derision in their stares, as he would have expected – only plain curiosity devoid of any judgment or emotion, save for the occasional display of surprise.

"Well, if you've made up your mind, then." He almost forgot his radio-link with Cécile was still active. "By the way, remember there's another person who deserves your credit – the man who found you in the subways and called us for help."

She was exactly right, of course, but he knew practically nothing about his faceless savior from yesterday. "Now that you mention it...did he leave a name? Or anything I could use to contact him, by any chance?"

"Hmm?"

"I just..." He frowned, wondering why exactly he had brought it up in the first place. "I just think I ought to thank him properly."

"Oh, well...I'm afraid I don't know. I didn't leave the trailer when we arrived at the tunnel, so I wouldn't even be able to tell you what he looks like." And she sounded truly remorseful as she said this. "But if you'd like, I can ask Lloyd. He actually spoke with him, so...ah, where is he?"

"Er, never mind," he cut in. "Maybe another time, then. But...thanks, Miss Cécile."

They stopped at a large chamber at the very rear of the building, and when the protective tarp fell in billowing folds to the floor, he finally met the Lancelot. The Knightmare cut an imposing figure, four and a half meters and seven tonnes of steel and polymer and silicon. Its paint, a young coat of white and gold, gleamed under the heavy fluorescent lighting from overhead. He looked into the darkened 'eyes' in the behemoth's head, and felt a chill crawl up his spine.

"This is...?"

"Yes," Cécile responded promptly, as though reading his mind. "Lancelot, the first seventh-generation Knightmare frame."

"Well if everyone is ready..." The speakers in the corners of the ceiling crackled as Lloyd's cheerful voice filled the room. "Shall we begin?"

Suzaku stood rooted to the floor, suddenly feeling rather lost as everyone else snapped to alertness and was soon milling around with purpose. After some time, Cécile took over, speaking at a much more reasonable volume: "Initial start-up now proceeding from phase twenty: equipping energy filler."

_'Confirmed pre-start. Energy filler now at full output_,' a mechanical voice acknowledged. A robotic arm clutching the said item unhinged various metal joints before pushing it into the receptacle in the frame. The dim red glow visible from the window of the cockpit shifted to a healthier blue-green. '_Thirty seconds to reach critical voltage.'_

"Initiating devicer set-up."

He ran up a short flight of stairs at another officer's prompt, free hand skimming the rail and the coldness of the metal there. He came upon the cockpit hatch open, with the seat extended all the way back and jutting out, as though waiting. Conjuring up one of the hundreds of schematics from the manual back into his mind, his fingers found the hidden switch underneath, and the seat was retracted into the machine with a soft whirr. '_Confirming entry of devicer into Z-01. Individual ID registration confirmed. Confirming establishment of man-machine interface.'_

As the relative darkness of the cockpit swallowed him alive, there were no words – after hundreds of simulations and countless instances of blindly fantasizing about this one moment – to describe how _familiar_ this all felt.

He inserted the key without even having to look. The panels before him lit up one after another, and with this the large, slumbering metal beast finally purred and hummed to life.

"Well then. Your mission outline, Private Kururugi." It was Lloyd's voice coming from the communicator now, as Cécile's was a muted drone over the speakers. "According to secondary intelligence, the poison gas canister is currently being held in the outdoor lot right behind the depot's shipping dock." His eyes flitted briefly over the series of images that flashed on his monitor, the final one freezing on-screen: a blueprint. "The internal structure of the device is as shown. The gas itself is actually contained in each of those cylindrical glass chambers. As you can see, there are five of them, arranged successively in multiples of seventy-two degrees from the first. Now, do you see the switch on the left end?" At his assent, the scientist continued: "That closes the circuit which controls the catch connecting all of the pistons at the ends of the chambers. The in-house power supply carries just enough voltage to drive the two motors inside, one of which opens the canister while the other lifts the pistons and releases the gas. Result: massive casualties!"

Suzaku wondered if he would ever be able to comprehend this man's morbid sense of humor. "So what do I need to do?"

"Your task is to disable this circuit, thus forcing all the mechanical components it controls to lock-down, _without _compromising the structural integrity of the canister itself. As you'll see in the schematic I'm sending you right now – " He saw the diagram well enough; understanding it was a wholly different matter, though. " – junctions 5 and 9 are effectively in contact with the floor of the canister itself. So if you can induce a large enough current through the frame, this should blow the fuse while still leaving the canister intact. For this you will be using the VARIS particle rifle: set it to 'custom' and – this is important – _graze _the exterior of the canister; d_o not _fire head-on! If our last-minute modifications were correct, once the pulse connects, it should be mission accomplished."

Lloyd heaved a loud sigh after that long spiel, and Suzaku took the time to spot the location of the controls to the VARIS, etching it into his memory. "It's a lot of information, but we'll be keeping this radio-link active throughout the mission," the scientist continued then. "So if you're unsure about anything at any point in time, err on the side of caution and ask us first. All right?"

"Yes, my lord."

"Good boy. You know," he drawled, "the risk factor for this entire operation is incredibly high on all possible levels, and yet I'd be lying if I said this whole endeavor doesn't excite me nonetheless. Especially since it may very well be my last."

Suzaku blinked. "I'm sorry?"

"I'm about to send an Honorary Britannian, one whose only prior piloting experience has been in _simulations_, into an operation using an advanced prototype to single-handedly neutralize a terrorist-controlled chemical weapon, with potential casualties lying in the millions. If even the smallest thing goes wrong – and many, _many _things can go wrong – the consequences would be so disastrous that I might not even be able to pull rank for A.S.E.E.C.'s sake anymore. Although, who am I to complain?" The communicator hummed, filled with a sudden burst of laughter. "Do your best, Private. The stakes are so much higher for _you_, after all."

"Understood," he replied. His gloves, still a bit stiff from first use, creaked a little as he closed his hands over the controllers. The last image on his screen expired and disappeared without prompt, and he was finally able to get a view of the Knightmare's surroundings once more. The video feed from his factspheres was sharp, of a far better quality than anything he had seen in the simulations, and he watched wordlessly as personnel and small supply vehicles cleared the area before the Lancelot.

Cécile was still trading formalities with the computerized voices when the hatch at the very end slowly began to open. The cables anchoring the Knightmare in place detached one after another, streams of air madly rushing out as the pressure equalized. Far, far below, a man holding a pair of twelve-inch glow sticks gestured toward the exit, and he could finally see the lights dotting the interior of the tunnel there.

He fingered a button idly, waiting for the light above the hatch to change.

"So far it's all going per the data...but oh, one more thing, Private Kururugi." Lloyd's voice was still louder than the crash of his landspinners hitting the ground once he got his green-light. "This new model isn't yet equipped with an eject mechanism. Just thought you should know!"

It didn't make much of a difference, Suzaku thought to himself as he acknowledged the man's warning aloud. As things stood, the poison gas was still the biggest threat he had to consider, although there were countless other potential hazards as well. Having never piloted this frame, or _any _frame for that matter, who knew if he would end up overshooting and crashing before he was even out of the complex?

And yet, he was quite certain that no matter howrisky the operation would have been, he would not have hesitated to accept. Perhaps this should have bothered him, really, but_ that _line had been crossed long ago.

It was worth it for this chance. What the terrorists were doing wasn't going to help anyone, not when it would only further the hostilities between empire and colony at a time when the difference in power was just unfathomable. And he thought that if it really did come down to _that –_ if Japan needed a little more blood to purchase a spell of peace, it may as well be his.

"Lancelot, activate M.E.-boost," he said softly.

_Because seven years ago, when the crickets were noisy and the night was clear, a ten-year-old boy stepped into his father's study, bearing a childish entreaty to – _

"Lancelot, _launch_!"

Cécile's voice shattered his ill-timed musing, and the Knightmare was shooting forward before he even realized it. The lights in the tunnel were a bright, blurry afterthought as he accelerated against the incline, and his grip tightened on the controllers when he finally saw the sky.

At the bottom-right corner of his monitor was a grid showing the route he needed to take in order to avoid as much civilian contact as possible. He followed it faithfully, but still wound up racing past several spectators who probably never even realized what they were seeing. He paid them no heed, he barely even heard Lloyd laughing his heart out ("Full throttle right out of the gate! I love it!"), and somehow, _somehow_, he was actually able to forget, albeit briefly, that he might just be racing to his demise.

The artificial, temporary thrill he would get from running simulations was nothing compared to this.

"Cooler than the manual," Suzaku murmured to himself, eyes flickering from one part of the screen to the next as the factspheres fed him generous amounts of data. Rings mushroomed around anything that was moving on his monitor, projecting coordinates, relative speed, an option to zoom in on the target with a single click. A counter near the top displayed the Lancelot's absolute distance from the depot, and the numbers were shrinking rapidly now that he was at top speed. "With this, I can..."

A sudden flash of pain registered in his side just as the Lancelot crossed the line of Sutherlands. _+500.00_, the counter flashed at that moment, and he grit his teeth to suppress a hiss. Not now, he thought. There was no time for this. Not when he was so close.

_Disable the terrorists, use the VARIS on the canister, free the hostages. _If he could only accomplish all of these, he would have done his job. Then maybe this madness would finally stop (doubtful; perhaps a brief respite was the best anyone could wish for) and _then _he could have the luxury of worrying about matters like yesterday's bullet wound.

The Lancelot had just cleared the two-hundred-meter mark – he could make out the depot decently enough from a distance – when he heard the measured, insistent beeping coupled by a flashing red light on one of the Lancelot's side-panels.

* * *

"He's asking for permission to _what??_"

"It seems there's a single Sutherland located a little over halfway between the depot and the primary defensive line." Cécile sounded just as confused as her superior, but was infinitely more composed about it. "Its pilot is sending an S.O.S. signal, and Suzaku is asking if he's cleared to offer assistance."

"In the middle of a combat and rescue mission? What a peculiar boy." Despite the tone of his voice hinting that he would not bother to expound further, the other scientist still stared at him, waiting for instructions. Oh, _hierarchy_, Lloyd sighed to himself, and how it so often got in the way of productivity. "Can you lift the ID number of the Sutherland?"

It took less than three seconds, and when Cécile matched it up against the database the machine produced a hit in even less time. "It's one of the units that was dispatched with Lord Gottwald early this morning."

"Marvelous!" Lloyd jumped to his feet, almost knocking over his chair and startling the man beside him. At least this still made some sense; after all, the Knight-police themselves were playing a veritable waiting game, so what difference would a few minutes make? That, and aiding an ally in battle would no doubt reflect well on A.S.E.E.C., but he wasn't sure which motivation pulled more weight, at least as far as he was concerned. "Tell him he can do whatever he likes. I'm taking a break."

"Now? But we're in the middle of – "

"I'll be back in ten. Try to keep him alive until then, okaaaay?" Drawing out the last part in a nasal singsong, Lloyd waved at the rest of his staff as he headed for the elevator.

It didn't matter to him whether Suzaku heeded the distress call or ignored it completely. Honestly, he couldn't have cared less if the boy had requested permission to _engage _the Sutherland (although that would raise a serious question of accountability, and he hated the mere prospect of having to sit through an incredibly boring court-martial).

But otherwise, it didn't make a difference because the readings they had been getting from this mission shattered all of their predictions. He'd been willing to settle for eighty per cent, but from just these past few minutes alone, Suzaku's numbers were hovering around ninety-four per cent. _Ninety-four_, he repeated in his head, unable to stop a grin from taking over his face. That was an outstanding figure on any barometer; who needed prior experience when he could deliver numbers like that?

The elevator stopped, and when the doors opened he stepped languidly into the corridor. It looked as though he had found his perfect 'part.' It was just too bad, he thought as he made his way to the cafeteria, that Suzaku Kururugi was human; if the terrorists decided to release the poison gas, he would have to start his search all over again. Pity, that. Tracking down another competent pilot would just be so much trouble.

* * *

From the moment he heard that voice over the audio link, L.L. knew he had found the boy from Shinjuku once again.

"What's wrong?" he was asking, and L.L. was so caught up in relishing the result of a plan successfully executed that he almost forgot to respond.

Tracking down Suzaku had been far from easy, after all.

In fact, it had taken most of the night, and then some. The Britannian military provided little information that was actually useful to the public online, but painstakingly browsing through its affiliates' news archives rewarded him with the identity of the curious man whom he had encountered at Shinjuku: Lloyd Asplund was a celebrated alumnus of the Colchester Institute and currently the head of the Advanced Special Envoy Engineering Corps, granted the title of Earl by appointment. That had been the only easy part.

Arriving at the A.S.E.E.C.'s headquarters just a little before sunrise, he'd hoped to be able to search the place for information (or even run into the boy himself, but L.L. acknowledged that would be a bit of a stretch) before most of the personnel arrived for the day. But as luck would have it, A.S.E.E.C. was a beehive that morning, and he was only able to get as close as the building's perimeter before the risk of getting caught became too high.

But he did learn two things in that frame of time: one, the terrorists from yesterday had just made their move (too soon, he thought grimly as he slowly pieced together the details – whether this was an act of desperation or retaliation, it was still _too soon_). And two, Earl Asplund had apparently been given clearance to deploy a new prototype in order to engage the terrorists and recover the poison gas, and the devicer he had chosen to pilot it was...

He didn't know for sure, at that point; Lloyd himself had personally called the the subject in question, summoning him to headquarters, but he did not address him by name. Nevertheless, L.L. had had a hunch and was ninety per cent sure he was correct. This was why, instead of staying to confirm it, he'd decided to gamble and head for the Knight-police's initial line around the hijacked depot.

There were several hints, actually: Lloyd Asplund seemed neither a doctor nor a particularly benevolent man, and L.L. doubted he would have bothered to save an Honorary Britannian foot-soldier without any logical reason. That, and the fact that the Knightmare – _Lancelot_, if he'd heard correctly – was being deployed with no back-up on what was evidently a solo mission; such an arrangement was extremely rare, although he wasn't sure about the protocol for new machines such as this one. Still, while the poison gas posed no threat to the Knightmare frame, it was _still _potentially fatal to its pilot, and knowing Britannia the military wouldn't dare send one of their own.

At this point in his reasoning, L.L. had to admit there were still other possible scenarios that these insights had not eliminated. But they were few, and this was enough for him to trust his gut, steal a Sutherland, and lie in wait here.

Because although there was little to be said of the poison gas, the terrorists themselves made for too many variables in this situation. Although using the weapon would be tantamount to a suicide mission, they knew Britannia had infinitely more to lose, so all bets were off. And if that happened, and he was _right_ about the identity of the Lancelot's pilot, then Suzaku's uncanny survival yesterday would have been worthless, and L.L. would be damned if the soldier died in such a pointless manner after piquing his curiosity so.

"My unit was ordered to cross the line to begin covert evacuation of at least the residential area here," L.L. said smoothly. "I've been able to clear out around a dozen households one at a time, but I didn't notice that my energy filler's level had gone critical until it was too late." He stared intently at the ID number listed in fine print underneath the flashing 'Sound Only' on his screen: _'Z-01-...'_ it began, an identifier that was, as he predicted, completely unique. He could have tried every possible combination that followed the syntax of his own Sutherland, and never would he come up with this one. So this bogus S.O.S. call, although infinitely riskier, turned out to be not only convenient but necessary.

There was quite a long pause before Suzaku spoke again. "Copy that, sir. What's the current status?"

"I've powered down everything except the secondary systems and audio communications. If I activate the main system, I have maybe five minutes left if I don't move." And if he did, there wouldn't even be enough time to make it back to the Knight-police, but they both knew that already.

Another period of silence followed, with Suzaku presumably relaying everything he had just learned to whoever was overseeing his mission from A.S.E.E.C. Now, there were three possible ways for them to address this conundrum: they could leave him here (again, doubtful, although from a pedestrian viewpoint it made the most logical sense) in which case he would have neither gained nor lost anything, except confirming that Suzaku was indeed the pilot of this strange new machine. They also had the option of deploying a separate service unit to his location, but this would require far more effort and red tape than they would probably be willing to deal with. Or...

"Sir, my commanding officer suggests that disabling the weapons and defense mechanisms before activating the main system might extend the available operation time to fifteen minutes."

Compromise. He was at first rather impressed that they were able to arrive at this result so quickly. But then he recalled that this officer was most likely a scientist or an engineer; a back-of-the-envelope calculation such as this would be child's play.

Then, one last, meaningful ante-up: "I would still have to set the power to my landspinners at the lowest possible setting. At that speed, am I to make my way back to the line simply hoping not to encounter any terrorist interference?"

"...In that case, maybe it would be safer if you came with me."

"Pardon?"

"There will be enemy forces for sure, but I think I can offer some protection...in any case, it's still safer than returning to the line, or ejecting at this point."

Hook, line and sinker. L.L. smiled. "Very well then. An escort into the den of wolves; you are too kind. Let me just relay this arrangement to Lord Gottwald myself." He then leaned back into the seat of the Sutherland's cockpit and proceeded to do absolutely nothing, counting off the seconds in his head. As far as this phase was concerned, all of the necessary conditions had just been cleared. "He approves. Let's go."

The trip to the depot should have taken much less time, but he had to own up to his lie. Cruising at a dismally slow pace, however, afforded him at least the opportunity to observe the Lancelot at leisure. While he saw where the frame's design took after the Sutherlands, there was no doubt that it was still in a class all its own. Its pristine white armor positively glittered in the late morning sunlight, and he wondered if this machine could deliver enough raw power to make up for its shameful lack of subtlety.

As they drew closer and closer to the depot, the neighborhoods they passed became increasingly dead – shuttered factories, gigantic warehouses staffed by merely a handful of personnel. As expected for the regions almost bordering the ghetto, he thought, as they left the quiet structures in their wake. How droll, all this idle silence wrapped around them, a pitiful excuse for a battlefield.

The relative boredom did not last terribly long, though, as large blue dots blossomed on the monitor in front of him. L.L. blinked, wondering for a split second what they could possibly mean ('blue' was generally the convention for allies, after all) before the synapses in his brain made the connection. "Three Sutherlands lining the entrance dead-ahead," he said, although he wasn't sure why; certainly the Lancelot's tracking system would be much better, or at the very least on par with his? But no matter. "These are most likely units taken by the terrorists from the depot itself." His eyes flickered over the screen as he brought up the city grid, immediately spotting three alternative routes that would –

"Thanks for the heads-up," Suzaku said, and the Lancelot surged forward.

"_Idiot!!_" He was yelling into the headset before he even realized it, composure tossed out the window. "What are you – ?!"

But if the Knightmare was intriguing at first glance, it was absolutely magnificent in action. Its landspinners sent a spray of dust and gravel high into the air as it cut an impossibly smooth arc heading straight for the middle Sutherland. A swift, solid jab to the enemy's chest and the Lancelot was airborne once again, firing both of its harkens. It ensnared the other two that way, dragging them along the concrete as it began its descent before smashing the two frames together. And when the first unit finally exploded the three pilots had already ejected, dangling from parachutes in the distance.

"Fast," L.L. breathed, a mix of wonder and disbelief in his voice. The Lancelot was truly a formidable piece of work, but there was something else: this was just like that time in the tunnel, he realized belatedly, when the boy had jumped out from behind their hiding place _against all possible logic_ and, despite an obvious lack of any tactics whatsoever, overwhelmed a group of armed terrorists through power and sheer speed.

Something akin to a fire alarm shook him back to reality. It was coming from the depot, and he swore silently at what that implied.

"What exactly is your mission objective?" he asked warily, eyeing his screen for more of those telltale blue dots.

"I need to find the canister and disable the circuitry. Once I do that, the Knight-police can come in safely." Of course, L.L. thought, rolling his eyes – the Knight-police had to have the glory, because it was good patriotic fodder for the media that way. "I'm sending you the map marked from my mission outline."

He glanced over it, noting that the target was on the other side of the main building. He hoped A.S.E.E.C.'s intelligence reports were recent and competent enough, because otherwise this would just not be worth the trouble. "Alright. I still have a little over eight minutes left, but if we do this right your mission will be over in five." He shifted a little and thumbed open the collar of his jacket; it was much hotter in here than he would have expected. "Have you been given instructions on how exactly to disable the circuit?"

"Yes, sir."

"How long will that take?"

"A few seconds, if I can do it in one shot."

L.L. nodded to himself, crunching the numbers in his head. "Very well. This is what we're going to do."

Thirty seconds later more Sutherlands spilled hastily from the entrance, just as he'd finished relaying his instructions.

"I leave these men to you. Mind your operation time."

"Yes, sir!"

As he steered his Knightmare away from the inevitable skirmish, a link to another audio channel – an open one, this time – popped up on his screen. It wasn't hard at all to recall the loud, vulgar terrorist from yesterday, as his voice flooded the cockpit's interior. "Back off, you fucking Brits! Or we'll – !"

The transmission ended with a rush of static once the Lancelot charged.

L.L. would have stayed to watch, but there was a far more pressing matter at hand. He maneuvered his Sutherland until he had circled around the three-storey building just adjacent to their current position; Suzaku was probably too busy fighting the newest batch of enemy Knightmares (just a guess, from the parachutes that mushroomed one after another) but he couldn't risk having the other pilot see him as he re-activated his weapons systems and fired a slash harken straight up into the air.

The head snagged onto the railing of the balcony with a loud _clang _that was hopefully drowned out by other noises, of bullets and landspinners and that nauseating alarm. As he retracted the cable, granting his Sutherland flight, his energy monitor glowed a bright, cheerful green, a blatant mockery of the alibi that was his only excuse for being _here_.

His initial plan, albeit rough and hastily-formed, had been: confirm that the Lancelot's pilot was indeed the soldier from yesterday (walk away if it wasn't), and if possible guide him through a strategy involving the least possible detection and danger, which would have to be built-up as they went along and based on the circumstances as they unfolded on the spot. Had Suzaku _not _been an idiot with an apparent penchant for reckless grand entrances, perhaps he would have succeeded.

(On the other hand, had Suzaku been predictable and thus uninteresting like that, he wouldn't even have bothered to come here at all. How did that come about?)

Regardless, it was too late to do anything about that. He'd been counting on two time-frames in which they would still be considered 'safe' from the poison gas, moments bought from (one) the element of surprise, and (two) the terrorists spying the Lancelot as merely one unit and inevitably underestimating how much of a threat it posed. The first was long gone, and from the frantic rate at which enemy pilots were ejecting, it seemed they were burning through the second far more quickly than he would have liked. So he wasted no time getting into position as soon as his Sutherland's legs cleared the railing, harken snapping back into place. He locked his landspinners, and then diverted a good amount of the main computer's processing power to visual detection.

Knightmares themselves weren't 'intelligent' enough to discriminate between potential hazards on the battlefield. But from this vantage point, he could see absolutely _everything._

"Man with grenade launcher at six-o'clock, evade if you can." But of course he could, sweeping the Lancelot out of the way with a grace he would never have dreamed of associating with these massive metal machines.

"The unit you're engaging has a damaged left leg." A low kick was enough to take full advantage of this weakness, as the unit in question was left to teeter precariously before collapsing; its pilot barely had a chance to eject.

"Five more Sutherlands right at the threshold. If you move fast, you might..." He trailed off then, only able to watch mutely as translucent greenish barriers materialized before the Lancelot's arms and deflected the mad barrage from the terrorists' assault rifles. "Or, that will suffice," he eventually managed. (Impressive, he wanted to add.)

Suzaku's voice was strangely calm for someone nestled in a Knightmare advancing slowly into a hail of bullets. "Do you have a visual on the poison gas?"

L.L. tried his best to come up with one, but the angle of inclination was too wide. "I'm afraid not. However...I see two possible routes to the shipping dock. You can either fight your way through those Sutherlands and take the shorter path across the depot, or..." He shifted his unit a bit to the left and zoomed in on the side of the building. "If you skirt the perimeter, it will take a bit longer. But you will only encounter several terrorists on foot, although they are armed with rocket launchers." He made it very clear from his tone which option he thought was wiser, but since this was Suzaku... "Proceed at your discretion."

"Thank you, sir!" As expected (what an irony that was), the Lancelot was very soon a blur of white and gold as it dropped its shields and quickly dispatched the five Sutherlands one after another.

"Of course," L.L. muttered, maneuvering his own frame until the corner of the balcony halted his progress. But even with this new position he found that he still couldn't see very far into the depot; the measly light afforded by its windows and vents reduced the whole interior to darkened shadows. Shaking his head, he wondered briefly why he had ever come to the conclusion that the boy was worth all this _trouble_, as he switched the factsphere sensor's input streams from visible light to infrared. With this, he was able to bring up a decent, albeit fuzzy thermogram just as the Lancelot moved to enter the depot proper, leaving heaps of abandoned Knightmares behind.

"There are at least three more active Sutherlands inside," he warned, "and a dozen or so terrorists on foot." But from the very audible spray of gunfire and Japanese curses that followed, perhaps he hadn't needed to tell Suzaku that at all. "The shipping dock will have several marked doors for trailers along the walls, and if your mission briefing was accurate, any of those doors should grant you access to the canister."

He listened intently at the sounds in the background – landspinners skidding, the swish of harken cables and a soft, steady hum he couldn't seem to identify. The defiant yells followed by the occasional hiss of ejection systems were testament to just how effective this Lancelot was in battle; Lloyd Asplund and his staff had created a monster, and L.L. thought that perhaps his aid in this operation hadn't been terribly necessary after all (though he imagined it would have gone neither as swiftly nor smoothly, if Suzaku's apparent rashness in combat was anything to go by.)

"I see the dock."

"Good," he acknowledged. He did not have to tell Suzaku to make his way there. "As soon as you blast through a door, fire your slash harkens at eleven-o'clock." That would bring down some of the scaffolding near the adjacent door and cut the Lancelot off from the terrorists that had been guarding the building's exterior.

"Yes, sir!"

The boy was on his own from then on. L.L. leaned back further into the seat, rubbing his eyes with one hand as he opened the front of his jacket completely with the other. Even with the thermogram he could not 'see' beyond the areas that weren't covered by the building's walls, and once the Lancelot entered the shipping dock his Sutherland simply would not follow it anymore. He'd considered transferring to another rooftop, but he didn't want to risk getting caught – not by the terrorists, but by _Suzaku_.

Besides, if his estimates were correct, then any moment now...

L.L. glanced up, startled as a muffled blast filled his headset, and a faint white glow spilled briefly out of the windows. "What happened?" he demanded. Was that – ?

"I did it." Suzaku's voice flooded him with an inexplicable sense of relief (whatever for?) and he wanted to know why the boy's tone seemed to carry more disbelief than triumph. "I...I did it! Miss Cécile, please tell the Knight-police to – "

He never heard the end of it, because at that very moment, another Sutherland suddenly came into view. Shooting above the railing the same way he had done just minutes prior, the Knightmare was a vivid, angry haze of reds and yellows on the thermogram. A metal fist smashed into his frame, and the cockpit shuddered.

* * *

"You...you're with _them!_" Kallen accused, frustration and rage and a whole host of other things leaving her hoarse just as soon as the open channel could be connected. "Why?!"

The other pilot wasn't even bothering to fight back, sticking only to evasive maneuvers (and even these, she noticed, were half-hearted at best.) "I never claimed to be one of your allies," he finally spoke, and it irked her that he had the gall to sound bored in spite of it all. "Perhaps you merely assumed it, knowing that the Knight-police have been keeping a cowardly distance. Do know that they are closing in now, so you have less than a minute to either fight or flee. What shall it be?"

She snarled. "How dare you – "

"But if you weren't such cowards yourselves," the man's voice was still an indifferent drawl even as she came after him with fists and harkens, "perhaps this defeat would not have been so meaningless. If you're going to threaten Britannia with poison gas, at least have the nerve to do it in the heart of the Settlement. A suicide mission, after all, is only as good as how many enemies you take down with you. In light of yesterday's massacre, this attempt is honestly quite pathetic."

Kallen felt her initial fury suddenly overpowered by something far more potent at the mere mention of Shinjuku. "You're wrong," she forced out through gritted teeth, and he _was_, in several ways. Her harkens found an opening and slashed off an arm. Driving her Sutherland forward, she had the other unit backed against the railing in a heartbeat, fist raised. "Go to hell!!"

But then there was a sudden flash, a glint of metal, and a much stronger grip blocking her Knightmare's punch before it could connect.

She swallowed hard, glanced furtively back at the depot. Not yet, she told herself, and withdrew only far enough to land a short distance away.

The two pilots must have exchanged words then, because the one-armed Sutherland was soon rolling away, heading for the ledge. And then just like that, the white Knightmare was right in front of her once more.

"The poison gas has been neutralized," the new pilot's voice took over on the open channel, and he sounded young, almost as if... "There's no reason to continue this anymore."

She'd never seen a Knightmare so _fast_, she realized as she struggled to dodge and parry the melee onslaught. Nevertheless, she forced a smirk: "You really don't have a clue, do you? And to think we were worried you'd figured it out when you showed up here."

"What?"

Kallen wanted to laugh, but she ended up struggling to suppress a cry as a slash harken struck dangerously close. Bits of armor chipped away from the impact danced in front of her, followed by a shower of sparks as the enemy's fist pummeled into her Sutherland's shoulder.

She wasn't going to last terribly long.

But when she cast a last, desperate glance in the direction of the depot once more, she felt a smile etch itself onto her face as she saw the truck pulling out and into the ghetto; perhaps she didn't have to.

"_Say__ō__nara._" She gave the enemy a firm, defiant farewell and – making sure she would wind up where she wanted, the ghetto, this time – hit the 'eject' button.

The plan had seemed so foolproof just minutes ago: as the cell's best Knightmare pilot, she had taken it upon herself to lure and engage this white monstrosity away from the depot, so that her colleagues could escape. It wouldn't be that hard to catch up to them once the coast was clear, after all. She did not, however, anticipate the arrival of the Knight-police; she didn't even realize they were here until the bullets from their assault rifles shredded her parachute.

Gravity was a heartless force, and trapped within a metal cocoon that rendered her immobile, she was completely at its mercy.

(She thought fleetingly of Naoto, and how he would never let her forget about this once she saw him again. Silly, he might call her, and maybe reckless and foolish, but before they would joke about it he would tell her he was proud of her, and maybe this was enough?)

Kallen yelped in surprise as the cockpit came to an abrupt stop. It was by no means a pleasant one – she was still flung twice into opposite walls – but it was impossibly smooth, and premature, for a fall from several storeys high. "What the..."

She got her answer, despite being unable to finish the question. As she dared to peer out the small, translucent window where the monitors used to be, she saw ten fingers of steel wrapped around the cockpit's exterior.

(How did he get here so _quickly_?)

"Are you all right?" The pilot's voice was loud and free of static over the speakers now, and she stared up at the glittering green pools set in the Knightmare's head. She couldn't think of anything to say, even when the Britannians' Sutherlands circled them like vultures.

* * *

When Suzaku finally disembarked from the Lancelot, the pilot he'd saved had just been taken into custody. He caught just a short glimpse – of a shock of short reddish hair and fierce blue eyes, the countenance of a teenage girl, which should have surprised him more than it did – before she was escorted firmly into the backseat of a police vehicle. That was the last he saw of her.

And it was the first as well, because he had surrendered the cockpit to the Knight-police not long after catching it, and spent the next half-hour or so scouring the area around the depot like the rest of the units. But while his superiors were searching for the usual targets – collecting the hostages, confiscating abandoned firearms and appraising the canister warily – he was looking for something else, or rather, some_one._

He never heard back from the other pilot after he saved him from the red-haired woman. The man had been an excellent spotter, and Suzaku had to admit to himself that this whole mission would have most likely been much harder if not for his help. If not to give his gratitude, he at least wanted to make sure the man was all right.

(There were other things, besides: some things didn't seem to add up, although he couldn't quite place _what._ And, strangely enough, the whole time he was speaking, a part of him couldn't help but associate that voice with someone he had already encountered...)

He shook his head furiously. No, that just _wasn't _possible, he convinced himself as he finally caught sight of Jeremiah Gottwald standing tall in the center of the complex, amidst the chaos around him. Mouth set in a determined line, he broke into a sprint until he was a measured distance away from the man, reporting with a well-practiced salute.

"At ease." Jeremiah turned to him with a scowl. "It turns out the whole thing was just an elaborate bluff," he said. "Sometime last night, the terrorists must have isolated the circuit and mechanism itself. So this..." He trailed off and gestured stiffly toward the canister. He saw where the blast from his VARIS had singed a spot along the outer edge, but what was most striking was how it had been pried open, and was clearly very, very empty.

Suzaku swallowed, and it hurt a little when he did so. "Then why – ?"

"They wanted to steal the Sutherlands." Jeremiah's tone and features were dominated by mostly anger and mortification. "Logistics have compared the current manual count to the last inventory record from midnight. Taking into account the ones that were destroyed today, they're short seven units still."

"I see," he said slowly, something like lead shifting in his stomach. So the poison gas had really only been for show; the terrorists only wanted more firepower, and they got it. Granted, the Sutherlands they obtained today would all have been defective in some way – they were from a _service _depot, after all – but damaged Knightmares were still light years better than none at all, and he supposed the terrorists thought this way as well. Besides, they still had the poison gas to hold on to.

He wondered how much of an impact this would make on his performance today. After all that had happened, was his participation in this mission going to be discounted? Staring at the piles of debris and bullet marks carved into the walls and concrete, he wondered if, despite all this, he had made a difference at all. That, and if anyone would even care to acknowledge what he had done.

"But that's not why I called you here." Jeremiah turned to two of his subordinates who had just dismounted, calling them over with a curt wave.

Neverthless, at the end of the day he was just grateful for having been given this chance at all. The Lancelot was amazing, and the whole time he was sitting in the cockpit he felt a strange resonance with the machine that simply wasn't there in any of his countless simulations in the past. Maybe, once this was all over, he could return to A.S.E.E.C. and...

One of the officers suddenly pulled his arms forward, and his thoughts unravelled when he saw the other pointing a gun at his chest. The loud _snap!_ startled him, and his voice came out strangled, despite his best efforts, when he looked down to see the cold, heavy handcuffs now binding his wrists. "My lord...?"

"Private First Class Suzaku Kururugi." Jeremiah's eyes were dark when he took out a telltale sheet of paper marked with the royal seal. And this was when Suzaku knew that this was not going to end well. "I am placing you under arrest for nine counts of homicide, causing the deaths of the Royal Guard to His Highness, Prince Clovis la Britannia."

* * *

Notes for Chapter 3:

- _On the chapter title_: The 'nightrider' is a fairy-chess piece which can make an unlimited number of conventional knight moves (L-shaped, 2+1 or 1+2 steps) in any direction, making it a 'rider' in a similar sense to the conventional bishop, rook, and queen. Basically a knight-on-steroids, it's fast and formidable, capable of delivering triple-check and winning ridiculous amounts of _tempo_. It was invented by chess problemist T.R. Dawson, and while it's obviously never used in any formal chess games, it's wildly popular in chess problems. Other names for the nightrider include the alternate spelling 'knightrider' and, you guessed it, 'knightmare.'

- _Technical stuff: _Official material states that 'VARIS' stands for 'Variable Ammunition Repulsion Impact Spitfire,' and that its defining feature is that 'it can control the repulsion of its ammunition.' I have no idea what exactly that is supposed to mean. But upon digging deeper, I stumbled upon a forum discussing technology in the CG universe, and a poster there made a compelling argument proposing that what the VARIS fires isn't a conventional projectile, but rather 'a mass of accelerated neutrons.' This, coupled with how the weapon seems to have different modes/settings (for example, in the hotel-jacking mission, Cécile explicitly instructs Suzaku to set it to 'anti-material, level 3') was my personal green-light to deduce that the VARIS may very well be capable of firing charged particles as well. Given the technology available to A.S.E.E.C., it wouldn't be that hard to perform the necessary modifications, although the nature of the operation would have called for near-zero tolerance for error in their calculations.

- _Technical stuff, continued: _The way I see it, if Britannia had any sense in developing a weapon involving poison gas, it would be activated remotely – nobody wants to have to physically stand next to the canister and push the button. But it can't be _too_ elaborate, or else they would have to sacrifice space, which could be used for more important things, like...holding gas. I settled on straightforward electronics, where the switch could be triggered by radio, infrared, or whatever, with motorized components. 'Grounding' (and I use the term very loosely here) the circuit onto the canister's frame would be one way of neutralizing static build-up, and Lloyd is taking advantage of this design when he orders Suzaku to do what he does: since the canister is made of metal, a huge and sudden influx of charge would effectively short the whole thing, and any fuse or circuit-breaker worth its salt would respond accordingly. Science is fun.

- Geass or no, Black Knights or no, I am of the opinion that the whole Suzaku/Kallen rivalry is written in the stars.

And now, review-responses!

**Meshik** – I'm glad you like the tunnel scene, and Lloyd's little quirks are just a lot of fun to write. Clovis' fate will be coming up very soon.

**Whitefleur** – Yup, Suzaku refused the Geass (and less than twenty-four hours later, he's being whisked off to jail.)

**Yamiro –** The 'mistook him for someone (he was not)' referred to Lloyd immediately assuming that L.L. was an off-duty soldier, since he was in civilian clothes but knew the military's radio protocols. Up to now they're still stuck with that assumption. Also, thanks for the transcript of that sound episode. It does put things a bit into perspective now. I was able to find it online not long after, but hey thanks a lot for offering!

**Mystra-chan06** – When I first read the review, I was actually: "Huh? What army number?" It took me several minutes to get it, actually. *headdesk* I'm looking to incorporate the slash gradually, but I'm excited to get to that myself as well.

**S. Warfield –** Thanks, I certainly will!

**Blackrose2005** – Aw, that's okay, any and all reviews are welcome. Heartless Lelouch, oh yes. Nunnally will definitely be in the fic...but as for Milly and Shirley and Nina, I'm afraid I'll have to get back to you on that (wouldn't want to spoil near-future chapters, etc.) But you are right about Nunnally not being the same person, good call.

**2stupid –** All will be answered in due time, my friend =).

**Tainted Ink And Paper** – Yay! All I can/will say at this point is that Suzaku's path to Geass will involve much anguish and self-doubt. Thank you for deeming them in-character, this means a lot to me. And that 'sorry, can't kill a civilian sir' scene wasn't a walk in the park, to be honest, so I'm really glad you like it. Um, what else: even though L.L. and Suzaku already 'worked' together in this chapter, they haven't really 'met' yet, but that should be a lot of fun to write (and hopefully, for you to read). Till then!

**Spunkay Skunk –** I must have jinxed myself with that, because _this_ chapter is definitely late! Haha, anyway: L.L., still a bit of a struggle, although I think I am sort of getting the hang of it (what I mean is, writing him now causes me less grief; it's up to the readers to decide if I'm actually doing him justice, though.) And yes, Suzaku is indeed my favorite; I find him so fascinating, issues and self-loathing and baggage and all (does it seem like I'm favoring him, though? If so, I need to work on that.) And, giant robot action = this entire chapter. I really hope it didn't bore you? (sweet smile)

**Death Can't Be Trusted** – 'L.L.' still takes some getting used to, even for me, but I thought given the setting that it was less awkward than 'R.R.' (though not by much), so I went with it. But, I appreciate the kind words! I've already decided on Suzaku's Geass power, but I have to keep mum for now.

**figeroa –** Yes, I am indeed from the Philippines =). No, not for college; my family migrated to Canada right after I graduated (I took my Bachelor's in Physics at the Ateneo) so I'm now in grad school here. Glad you like it!

**seebear** – Thanks a lot!

**AstralSight –** I appreciate that you mentioned the pacing, since I was a bit concerned that I was either going too slow or too fast, trying to fit the whole narrative I planned into a restrictive 25 chapters (for now.) Also, it's always a little dilemma, choosing which elements of canon to keep, which to change and how, so I'm glad it currently agrees with you for the most part. Lastly, Lelouch would live richly in any incarnation, I am convinced of this as well =).

**Zoorzh –** I do hope so. Thanks!

**Lady Nogitsune –** Wow, thanks a lot! I do enjoy writing Suzaku and, difficulties aside, Lelouch, although sometimes I think I might be overanalyzing at some points. But, yes, I do put a fair amount of thought into it because although I'm literally free to change things as I please, I do want the events to seem plausible, given the circumstances in which they were born. For example, Clovis, as you mentioned: I wanted him to remain as Viceroy, but not on a whim and without a good reason, so yay for pointing that out =). Apologies for the lack of Clovis in this chapter (he was alluded to, but that's all), but I will make up for it in the next one!

**Vestis –** I'm never sure if I do L.L. right, so thanks!

**fra –** Hooray for 'IC' review! I will certainly do my best to meet the expectations set so far =).

**A non a miss –** Out of curiosity, was there something in the summary that turned you off? Regardless, thanks for giving it a shot!

It goes without saying that this chapter took a _lot_ longer to get up than I would have liked / imagined. I really didn't want February to go by without at least one chapter (two was pushing it), but a lot of things happened that put a damper on my productivity – the Olympics (my fault for getting caught up in the excitement, I suppose), then midterms, then a personal tragedy I'm still not 100% over. But, I do hope this update was worth the wait, especially given how long the chapter is: without author's notes and other 'extra' segments, the chapter proper is 14,111 words long; that's longer than _Last Rites_, my current longest one-shot. Oh man.

Thanks for reading the chapter, and I do hope it was to your liking. As always, reviews would be very much appreciated, so don't hesitate to fire away!


	4. Stage 04: Sixty Seconds of Folly

Disclaimer: _Code Geass_ – with its characters, settings, and all other borrowed elements here – is the sole property of its creators. I do this purely for my own entertainment, and (hopefully) that of my readers as well.

Opening lines of this chapter are taken from _For You,_ by The Calling_._

Warnings for this chapter: The usual so far, language and violence, and nothing (yet) is terribly explicit.

Enjoy!

* * *

Area 11 was well over nine thousand kilometers away from Pendragon, but if it hadn't been for the tedious overnight flight she probably wouldn't have noticed the difference. From what she had seen – well, what little she _could _see from the back of the limousine that had been waiting for them at the airport – the Tokyo Settlement was an upscale metropolis that did not want for any of the intricacies of Britannian culture.

Which would have been fine, had she been homesick already. But truth be told she would have much rather seen even a glimpse of the Area 11 in the history books: the gorgeous countryside, rice paddies and blue mountains, men who fought with sticks and women holding paper fans. She didn't even come close, as throughout the entire ride to the mansion she was unable to see a single face that did not belong to a Britannian. But the route had been 'carefully planned,' the driver assured them then, so maybe that was the point?

"Still not finished unpacking?"

The girl glanced up from the scarf sitting idly in her hands – around her, clothes, shoes, and various feminine odds and ends littered the massive but half-empty bedroom – and gave an apologetic smile.

"I'm really sorry I had to put you through all this," the woman at her door continued. "But this was all on short notice. I do wish he'd given us more time though."

"When will the announcement be made?" she asked quietly.

"Tomorrow night. That leaves us just a little more than a day to rest, so make the most of it." And then the woman turned on her heel and left, closing the door softly behind her.

Tomorrow night, she repeated in her head, tying one end of the scarf to a growing chain of similar scarves that was now snaking across the floor. Tomorrow night she would give up any hope of personal freedom and become tied to..._something_ (responsibility, duty, some combination of those, although really, most of the weight would fall upon her sister's shoulders, not hers). She knew she shouldn't be complaining; she was sixteen now, after all, old enough to immerse herself in politics, in governance, in war – all the things that mattered, her sister would probably say, and she would try her best to convince herself that this was true.

That still left today, though, and she smiled as she rose to her feet. Securing one end of the chain against the lock, she pushed the rest of it out the open window.

She had never scaled a wall this way before, but there was a first time for everything.

* * *

**.**

_Within the darkness_

_You are the light that shines away_

_In this blind justice_

_I can be that man who saves the day_

**.**

**Bird's-Eye View**

Stage 04

**. : Sixty Seconds of Folly : .**

Chess and warfare had an innate symmetry, he'd always thought, that went far deeper than those who dabbled in either often realized. The same hierarchy, the same stage for cold strategy, the same collusion between parts of a whole to achieve a successful campaign. The same dichotomy in the bottom-line: protect your king, or hunt down the enemy's. The same fight for lucrative positions, high ground on land, the center on the chessboard. The same notion of gambits, pincers, skewers, attack and retreat and exchange and checkmate.

But then there were also ways in which the two were vastly different. The human element of real warfare, especially, tossed a significant amount of randomness into the pot, so that even the most precise calculations would not be able to predict putting an Eleven into a prototype, 'civilians' refusing to yield to the Knight-police. Or, terrorists bluffing their enemies with an empty canister, a wild gambit in exchange for a handful of Knightmares; well played, those bastards, he thought to himself. Well played.

L.L. waited until he had cleared the now-abandoned defense line before veering due East, heading for an empty lot near the border. The chaos had died down significantly since he left the depot; everything had happened more quickly than he'd thought, that by the time he was able to find another vantage point, the cockpit from the Sutherland that had botched its ejection lay empty and discarded in a mesh of police tape. He hadn't even been able to lay eyes on its pilot, but he _had _seen two of Jeremiah's lackeys escorting a handcuffed and protesting Suzaku to an armored vehicle with impossibly tinted windows. Although he was reasonably cooperating, they didn't seem to appreciate that he was questioning his arrest, as proven by several blows to the face with a rifle butt.

He clicked off the visual feed as the officers shoved the boy into the back seat, disgusted. What a mess. Had Suzaku violated some military protocol throughout the mission? Maybe their cooperation had been tantamount to the boy deviating from his orders, but Lloyd _had_ given the green-light, hadn't he? And besides, he would think that aiding an ally would be more likely worth commending than condemning, unless of course they suspected him...?

L.L. shook his head furiously, refusing to let his thoughts get ahead of him (it was hard, sometimes). After pushing several buttons on one of his panels, the hatch hissed open partway, flooding the cockpit with sunlight and much-needed fresh air.

He dialed a familiar number onto his cellphone. As much as he hated to do this, by now he considered himself too deeply involved to _not _get to the bottom of this strange and messy affair. He damned his curiosity, but truth be told he hadn't quite had it piqued this much in decades. Perhaps that counted for something.

Despite his best efforts, he found his mind wandering, wanting for an explanation as the ringing began. Had the Purists somehow deemed A.S.E.E.C.'s choice of a pilot as offensive? Farfetched, he immediately concluded, although Jeremiah Gottwald making the arrest was telling. And even if it were so, the perpetrator of the 'crime' would have been whoever made the staffing decision, not Suzaku.

A click and a warm greeting on the other end of the line forced him to rein in his thoughts long enough to respond. "Good morning to you too. The young mistress of the house, is she available?" It turned out she wasn't, and he expressed a bit of disappointment. When asked if he wanted to leave a message, he obliged: "Please tell her it's L.L. Something came up all of a sudden, and I'm afraid I won't be able to meet with her tonight, as I said I would. Could you also please tell her to call me back so we can reschedule?"

With that, he had cleared one of the looming obstacles halfway – the first, he was sure, of many. But this was enough for now, he thought as he leaned back into the seat and tilted his head towards the sky. It was bright now, and clear; the clouds were lazy and the breeze was warm, and for a moment it seemed like there had never been a war.

"Yes, anytime is good. Thank you. Have a nice day."

* * *

The darkness was a dismal creature, sickening, enveloping him like a shroud. The ride hadn't been particularly long; he was sure it was still early afternoon, and there should still be sunlight, but there were no windows in this room to grant him that respite.

The flight suit was suffocating in this heat, and his shoulders ached; he hadn't yet tested the handcuffs locking his arms around the back of the chair, if he could break them. Maybe that was what they wanted – if anything, it would be an excuse for the two officers guarding the doors to gun him down.

"If you willfully admit to the crime," Jeremiah was telling him, "that just might be the difference between life imprisonment and execution. The choice is yours."

Suzaku stared sullenly at the large metal table separating him from his accuser. Papers were scattered somewhat messily on the surface – his arrest warrant, a statement from the Third Prince, and personnel files of the members of the Royal Guard, all of which now had 'Deceased' stamped in bright red block letters across the biodata. And this surprised him as well, because if it hadn't been for this arrest he would have had no idea that those men had even died.

"I've told you everything I know," he said earnestly. And indeed he had, of how the men had appeared in the tunnel, how they had not been pleased at his refusal to shoot a civilian, and how a slight misunderstanding had followed. That had to have been what it was, because that exchange had ended with L.L. on the tunnel floor, dead as a stone, and then the gun turned on _him_ and – that was as far as he could remember. "I have no knowledge of what happened to them after the captain shot me."

Jeremiah scowled; he wasn't buying it. "And I suppose it's just a convenient coincidence that there was no-one else present in the tunnel at that time, who can verify your claim? The Royal Guard are selected from the very finest of the Britannian infantry, so I hope you are aware that these are very serious allegations on your part, Private Kururugi."

"I...I'm aware." But he was also _sure_. If only he could get Lloyd to testify – or better yet, the still-nameless, still-faceless man who rescued him in the tunnel, but who was to say that either of these people owed him anything?

"Investigators found this several meters away from the bodies." Jeremiah produced a sealed evidence bag and dropped it unceremoniously in front of him. Through the clear plastic he could see the familiar black and grey metal of an assault rifle. "We believe _this_ is the weapon that was used to commit the crime. Does it look familiar?"

Suzaku stared at the rifle. It did look like his, he had to concede. But so did the thousands of other similar, nondescript firearms issued to ground troops in the Area. Unless they actually checked the serial number and matched it against the one listed on his file, he had no way of telling whether or not that weapon had ever been in his hands.

This was what he was saying when one of the officers suddenly kicked him in the side. He saw it coming from miles away, but the handcuffs did him no favors as he fell to the floor, landing hard on his shoulder and taking the chair with him. He bit back a hiss and struggled to meet Jeremiah's eyes when the latter rose, now towering over him.

"I can see that you're not particularly willing to cooperate, Private Kururugi." His gaze was hard and unforgiving, and there was a simmering anger there barely kept in check. "Know that I am going to note this, and make it known to the tribunal for their consideration."

"But I'm not – !" A stronger kick in the gut knocked the wind out of him, and he never finished. Gasping at the pain, he couldn't find the voice to cry out anymore when the other officer joined in. The kicks and blows from batons and rifle butts rained down so hard and so fast that he couldn't count them, much less resist them, if he tried.

Light flooded the room for just a split second, as Jeremiah made his exit. But all too soon it was gone again, and only pain and darkness remained.

* * *

Rubbing his eyes, L.L. sighed as yet another accidental feedback loop crashed his laptop. He forced the machine into a hard restart and pushed himself away from his desk. Hacking into the Britannian military's databases was starting to take its toll on more than his mind, and maybe it was time to take a break.

He sauntered into the kitchen and set about brewing a pot of coffee. He'd spent most of the afternoon hunting for information on his computer, and it certainly didn't help that these last few hours had been a rough replay of what he'd been doing all night. It wasn't exactly the wisest of choices in recent memory, he mused; while most of the side-effects of missed sleep no longer followed him after taking the Code – headaches, other ailments like it – exhaustion _did_, and he'd learned this the hard way a long time ago.

As it was, though, he'd already obtained most of the information he needed. Security had been formidable, but persistence eventually granted him the victory. As soon as he verified exactly which party had been responsible for the pilot's arrest, and whathe was being charged with (and _this _came to him as a surprise, since Suzaku was apparently the suspect in the murders _he'd _committed) he'd begun hatching his plan.

Today's obstacles would be somewhat different from those he'd encountered at A.S.E.E.C. and at the depot, he thought, although if he could always keep several steps ahead, they wouldn't be too much of a problem. Since he couldn't rely on Geass anymore, he would have to do this entirely on his own; it would have been so much easier otherwise, but it wasn't as though he had a choice in the matter.

This last thought, he realized, should have bothered him more than it actually did. Was _one _soldier really worth all this trouble?

It wasn't so much the guilt – that Suzaku was taking the blame for something that was _his fault entirely_, no. It was a matter of seeing it through. If he didn't get involved tonight, he reasoned, then all the effort he'd expended since yesterday – the painstaking research, the spotting, the ten-second Knightmare battle with an angry teenage rebel – would have all gone to waste, and Suzaku would be headed either to the gallows or to a destiny of rotting in prison for the rest of his life.

One glaring truth wasn't lost on him, though: had Suzaku just accepted the Geass he'd been offered, he probably wouldn't even be in this predicament. That irony – what was that?

L.L. took his coffee the moment it was ready, black. It seared the inside of his mouth and traced a burning path down his throat, and he glanced at the clock: it was still quite early in the afternoon. He could either finish the last of his research here, spending another half-hour rooted in front of his monitor, or...

He drained his mug and placed it in the sink, letting the water run. The sun was still out now, but one look at the clouds told him it was probably going to rain in a few hours. Not that that mattered to his plan either way; pulling on his jacket and a pair of black satin gloves, he switched off the faucet and headed for the door.

In order for his plan to work, he needed some cash to burn, and _this _required a quick visit to the gambling den.

* * *

"Stadtfeld, Kallen?" A slight incline of her head was the only reply the officer ever received, but apparently it was enough for him. Lowering his clipboard, he punched several numbers onto the keypad outside her cell. The translucent barrier dissolved with a hiss. "Follow me, please."

It really was rather convenient that they didn't tie her ankles together, she realized as she rose nimbly to her feet. Squinting as the harsh fluorescent light hit her eyes, she cast subtle glances at the cells they passed as they walked. There was a man kneeling with his face set in a glare, another man wearing a bandana that was the trademark of another resistance cell (Saitama, maybe?), a boy sitting with his back to the wall and hugging his knees, green eyes despondent and vacant. All of them Elevens, she noted grimly, but her spirits were lifted just a little bit when she saw no familiar faces. At the very least, Ohgi and the others had all escaped.

The officer stopped and stood stiffly outside an open doorway, motioning for her to enter. She did, and found herself inside what seemed to be an office. A large desk dominated the room, and as she walked in she was greeted by its occupant with a nod. "Miss Stadtfeld. Please, have a seat."

Kallen did as she was told, although having her hands still bound made it almost impossible to get comfortable. She took in the countenance of the person before her – the woman's amber eyes and long, silvery hair – and blurted out the carving on the golden nameplate dubiously: "Jeremiah Gottwald?"

"I'm afraid Lord Gottwald is in a meeting with the military tribunal." The woman's lip twitched upward, as though she were trying not to smile. "My name is Villetta Nu."

Of course, she realized belatedly, staring at the floor to cover up her embarrassment. It figured they wouldn't think her enough of a threat to warrant the attention of anyone who mattered – or at least, mattered enough to have his own office. Still, the alibi was interesting: 'military tribunal.' Trouble at home, it meant, probably one of his own soldiers causing him grief. She supposed this was a good thing.

The woman leafed through a stack of papers before drawing one from the middle of the pile. She then proceeded to stamp and counter-sign several parts of the document. "Your bail has been posted, so after a few standard procedures, we're going to let you go."

Kallen blinked. "By whom?" she asked before even realizing it. She had used the one phone call she was granted, after all, to dial Ohgi's cell phone, although he never picked up.

"Anonymous benefactor. The party has requested that they not be named, although the money was wired from an account in Pendragon." Villetta was frowning thoughtfully over the papers. "I couldn't tell you more even if I wanted to."

She didn't need to, and Kallen's thoughts turned sour when she realized what had happened. "I see." Well, it was nice to know that the old man still gave a damn, even if he clearly didn't want to have anything to do with her, at least in public. Or maybe he didn't even care at all; if she went to court, after all, _his_ name would be all over the legal documents and news reports. She shook her head and barely, barely swallowed back a bitter laugh.

"Miss Stadtfeld." She looked up to acknowledge the other woman, who had set aside all the paperwork and propped her arms atop the desk. It was probably to make her feel at ease, although the hardness in the woman's gaze was still there, keeping all of this strictly formal. "May I ask what it was you were doing at the Sutherland service depot this morning?"

She glanced out the window and saw that the sky was just beginning to darken. So the day hadn't yet changed then, and it was still early evening; oddly, all that time spent sitting idly in a prison cell seemed much longer than it actually turned out to be. Maybe, if she was lucky, she could make it home at a reasonable hour, and her stepmother would leave her alone instead of asking stupid questions.

"Miss Stadtfeld?"

"I thought I'm supposed to keep silent," she replied timidly; she was Kallen _Stadtfeld _now, she had to remind herself, and Kallen Stadtfeld had to behave very differently. "That's how this works, right? 'Anything I say can and will be taken against me'?"

"In a court of law," Villetta finished for her. "But no-one is pressing any charges, and this is just a standard question required by protocol. The information we glean from this could be useful for future investigations, so feel free to speak your mind."

She didn't need anyone's permission to _ever_ speak her mind, much less a Britannian officer like this one. Still, if she talked, she would be helping them, if only in a roundabout way. And she wasn't really interested in helping them.

"All right, I understand if you don't want to talk." It almost astounded her, how nicely she was being treated. She wondered if anyone else from her cell would be faring this well, had they been the ones captured in her place. "However, I want you to know that these people who hijacked the depot are criminals whose activities are unlawful and dangerous to the citizenry. They are ruthless and have no regard for whom they might hurt in the process, or worse. You would not want to be caught up in their ilk again, for your own safety if nothing else."

Kallen nodded mutely, biting back a retort ('I'm sorry, for a moment there I thought you were describing the Britannian Empire!') with a tiny, sleepy-eyed smile. "Thank you for your concern. I'll be sure to keep that in mind for the future."

While this particular charade was just about to get nauseating, it seemed to appease Villetta, who motioned for her to stand up and personally unlocked her handcuffs. She rubbed at her wrists, but didn't feel much in the way of pain; upon pulling out her information and spotting her last name, her first pair had quietly been switched with one that was lined.

"There's just one more thing I need you to do for me before I can let you go." She eyed the woman warily as she produced a small digital pad, reaching for her hand. "I'll need your thumbprints here."

"What for?" She tried her best to make her question sound as innocuous as possible.

"Just for security measures," Villetta assured her with a close-lipped smile. "Now, if you please?"

Less than ten minutes later, she was standing outside the facility, already dressed in the clothes she'd recovered with the rest of her belongings. The officer from before offered a short farewell before retreating back into the complex. And just like that she was alone, scot-free in the middle of the Tokyo Settlement.

Well. That had been ridiculously easy, almost alarmingly so; she couldn't help but wonder if there was something she'd missed.

* * *

By the time the first, fat droplets finally fell from the sky, the owner of a small, unmarked shop near the outskirts of the Settlement was just about to close a deal.

Or, he hoped he was.

"Its size makes it very convenient," he was saying. "The epoxy behind the protective strip ensures you can affix it onto just about any surface, so long as it's sufficiently flat on that scale. All in all, very discreet."

"What about metal detectors?" the potential customer asked, pushing the device around in his palm; the latter dwarfed it completely. The man opened his mouth to reply, but was cut off: "Wait, irrelevant. Never mind. What's the longest it can take?"

"Depends on how you set it up. For decent quality, about a minute or so." It probably wasn't the best sales pitch in the world, but experience taught him it was better to be honest up front than have to deal with customer complaints afterwards. "If you want something that can go longer, we have – "

"No, no. A minute is more than enough."

"...All right, then." He pretended not to be surprised; this sale was turning out to be a lot less difficult than he was used to. "I can't give you a warranty for this – you know how it is – but that won't be an issue if you know what you're doing. You'll want to keep it away from extreme heat or any intense EM fields; otherwise, it's about as resilient as you'll ever need it to be."

"That's fine." The man on the other side of the counter seemed bored, as though he couldn't care either way. He nodded towards the window; outside, the rain was now pouring in torrents. "What about moisture?"

"Shouldn't be a problem." He shrugged. "Personally, I'd avoid it if possible, but otherwise the risk of any significant damage should still be minimal."

The man nodded, and there was a thoughtful, calculating look in his eyes. "Right. I'll take it."

He paid entirely in cash, crisp fifty-pound notes laid out individually onto the counter by gloved hands. Dexterous hands, he noted out of the corner of his eye, swift and efficient. He wanted to ask what a young man like this was doing in this part of the city, with _this much_ money on his person, but he decided questions like that were impolite, especially coming from him.

"Thank you for your assistance." The man's smile was either genuine or well-practiced, and when he offered a handshake, the shopkeeper felt satin beneath his roughened palm.

* * *

"Well, well. Aren't you the poster boy for good cheer."

Suzaku lifted his head with a jerk, startled out of an uneasy sleep. "Hmm?" He hissed as he stretched out his legs, feeling the full wrath of pins and needles from having them drawn up to his chest for so long. His eyeballs ached, and there were spots where he'd buried his face in his arms. "Sorry," he added as soon as he gathered his wits. "Were you waiting long?"

Lloyd shook his head cheerfully. He was seated just outside the boy's cell, on a stool that was far too small, and the excess length of his lab coat scraped against the dirty floor. "I just got here. I must say, Private Kururugi, the amount of bureaucracy I had to surmount before I could see you was tremendous!"

He winced, making his way closer to the man. In truth, he was not really enthusiastic about moving while his legs were still recovering. "I'm sorry for the trouble."

The scientist waved off his concern. "Psssh. The opportunity cost was just _research _after all, which is not quite as amusing. Do you apologize for every little thing? You really ought to kick that habit." The man leaned in closer then, adjusting his glasses so that they sat a bit more snugly atop his nose. "Also: you look like a mess!"

Suzaku smiled wanly. He certainly _felt_ like a mess, with his limbs stiff from idleness and bruised from the generous beating he'd received, not to mention yesterday's bullet wound and last night's... "I'm all right. How is Miss Cécile?"

"Worried sick about you, if you must know. It really is unfortunate that you got yourself into this pickle. But on the bright side, she was able to give me your final efficiency rating." He grinned widely, raising his eyebrows. "Care to take a stab at it?"

He shrugged slightly. He highly doubted Lloyd would be here if he hadn't cleared the floor number, so... "Eighty per cent?"

"Higher."

"Eighty-...one?"

Lloyd rolled his eyes with a mock sigh, before throwing his arms out to his sides. "_Ninety-four per cent_!"

His eyes widened. "Really?"

"Mm-hmm. Congratulations! In terms of performance, you're more than qualified to become the devicer for the Lancelot...barring any red tape, of course. Oh, and..." He pointed at the barrier between them. "_This _will certainly be a problem."

Of course. He could be the best pilot in the world, and all of that would mean nothing if he was in prison. Still, he couldn't help the tiny surge of elation from what he'd just heard. Ninety-four per cent wasn't perfection, but it was damn close, especially for a prototype like the Lancelot.

"I see they weren't very gentle with you," Lloyd continued. "If this is how Britannia treats her own soldiers, future prisoners-of-war ought to beware."

"They're saying I murdered the Royal Guard," Suzaku murmured, before glancing up at the older man in earnest. "But it's not true! I didn't even know they were – !"

"It's all right, Private Kururugi." Lloyd waved his hands placatingly, and although the smile on his face shrank a bit, it didn't disappear completely. "I believe you."

"You do?"

"Actually, I believe what I observe. For example...ah, I suppose you wouldn't happen to have your precious pocketwatch on you at the moment?" Perhaps one quick look at the filthy, oversized prison uniform he had been forced to wear was enough to answer his own question. "Anyway. By any chance, do you remember the time that was displayed on the clock's face when we returned it to you?"

He couldn't remember, and he couldn't see what this had to do with anything, either. "Um..."

"2:34," the scientist filled in for him. "And I assume that, at some point in the past, you deliberately set it to match the official time used in military operations and missions, is that correct?"

Suzaku nodded; he'd done exactly that the first night he'd moved into the barracks. He'd done this to all the timepieces he owned, because it was just simpler this way. "Yes. But how did you – ?"

"Mmm, just a guess. You strike me as _that_ kind of person." Lloyd grinned widely at him, and his eyes were almost obscured behind his lenses. "But here's the interesting part. Communication logs show that the captain of the Royal Guard actually sent a _10-7_ to the base at Shinjuku; I presume the request was to collect the terrorists who were in the tunnel with you at the time. According to the records, the exchange started at 2:41 p.m."

"That means..."

"Exactly!" The man's glasses were slipping, and he adjusted them once more. "Those men were still very much alive at least seven minutes after you were shot, which means, as far as I'm concerned, you're off the hook."

It was good to know that Lloyd, at least, believed in him. There had been so much going on in his head as he turned in his personal belongings, and he'd completely forgotten about the watch. "Will that be enough to convince them, then?" he asked hopefully.

"Unfortunately not; the gap between the crime and your arrest was too long, and thus there's no way to prove you _didn't _simply adjust the watch this way or that. On the other hand, the time frame your defense would be hinging on – seven minutes – is too narrow of a window to mean anything useful. If _that_ were longer, then maybe we had something."

Suzaku looked down, crestfallen. "I see."

"Oh, it gets worse. Lord Gottwald sent a few officers down to A.S.E.E.C. to ask questions today. And I asked, but apparently he isn't going to allow me to testify. Cécile, too. 'Conflict of interest,' they said."

"I understand," he said softly. "But, thanks for offering. I appreciate it."

"Anything for a chance to work with my ninety-four-per-cent-devicer again." The man sighed loudly, and his smile had a hint of sadness to it this time. "When's your court-martial?"

"Tomorrow morning."

Pale blue eyebrows shot up. "So soon! Are they trying to prove a point?"

Suzaku shrugged.

"Well, I'll wear a suit. May as well have _one _friendly face in the audience," he drawled.

"What...what do you mean by that?" Suzaku asked hesitantly.

"Oh come now, let's not have to state the obvious. No matter _how _innocent you are, the defense is going to be a sham. I'm surprised this whole matter even made it to trial at all. Either way, you won't have a single ally in this fight."

"But the court is meant to bring the truth to light!" At least, that was what he'd always thought; courts were established so that the guilty would get the punishment they were due, and the wrongfully-accused could have their names cleared before the world...right?

Lloyd offered him a wry smile. "I think it's more often that it obscures it in the darkness, that truth you speak of."

Was that how it was? Something unpleasant formed a pit at the bottom of his stomach. If so, maybe he _had _been too naive all along; maybe, maybe L.L. was right about him –

Quickly he banished that thought out of his head, setting his jaw determinedly. "If that's how the world works, then so be it." (Perhaps _one _good thing could come of this; if they gave him the maximum sentence, then at least, finally...) "I've no regrets."

"Aha!" Lloyd clapped his hands together, and his enthusiasm filled the bleak hallway. He wondered if the prisoners in the cells adjacent to his were becoming annoyed with all the noise they were making. "What a philosophy! You really would have made for the most fascinating part."

He _still_ had no idea why the man kept calling him that.

"Well, I'd best be going – the guard at the end of the hallway there is giving me a dirty look." Lloyd stood up and smoothed out the creases on his coat. "I'll see you tomorrow, Private Kururugi."

"Wait! Before you – "

"Hmmm?" The scientist's eyes glittered as he paused mid-step.

"That is, I..." Suzaku didn't know why it even mattered to him now; it wasn't as though he could use the information anytime in the foreseeable future. But this was probably the last time he could speak with Lloyd Asplund – or _anyone_ – freely like this. And so it was partly curiosity, and partly just a half-desperate urge to prolong this conversation, that led him to inquire about the mysterious man who had saved him in the Shinjuku tunnels.

"Mmm, yes, Cécile did mention to me in passing that you had asked about him. Unfortunately, I know just about as much as you do!"

Suzaku blinked, surprised. "Come again?"

Lloyd laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Well, I assumed he was part of the military, but because he was in civilian attire I couldn't tell you which department he belonged to even if my very life depended on it. There's also the fact that the radio he used to request an ambulance was _yours_, so there's no point in trying to pull up the logs and trace him that way."

"But you did see him?" he pressed on.

"Mm-hmm! But not very well; the tunnel was dark and really, I was more focused on making sure my staff didn't accidentally kill you – we're not paramedics, not even close. But, hmmm let's see. Tall. Somewhat thin, black hair. And...haha, I'm afraid that's all this brain chose to file away~!"

Suzaku tried and failed to suppress the slight shiver that crawled up his spine. The fact that this description just happened to match L.L.'s was definitely _not _lost on him. But then again, there had to be millions of people that would meet those exact same criteria; maybe it was just a coincidence (right?)

"He didn't happen to leave a name, did he?"

"As a matter of fact, he did, but I don't think it's very useful."

"I'm sorry?"

"When I asked him," Lloyd grinned, "he said: 'Schneizel el Britannia...unless it's relevant.' Interesting character, wouldn't you say?"

With that, the scientist picked up his stool and sauntered back down the hallway, leaving Suzaku to his thoughts. He was whistling a merry tune, and it echoed somewhat eerily off the walls.

* * *

Being the son of the Emperor meant that his family's tradition was long, rich, and bloody, and steeped in – of all things – superstition.

He didn't have to believe in them to remember what they were. Among them was this: misfortunes, when particularly grave and earth-shattering, would often befall in threes. A quick recall of the past few days seemed to prove this one right; after all, there was the poison gas fiasco (and the hijacking it led to), as well as the murder of the Royal Guard in that wretched Shinjuku ghetto. Neither of these affected him directly, but they hurt his position a _lot, _and any person of his stature knew that the higher up one sat in the hierarchy, the more the line between position and person blurred to obscurity.

And _this_, Clovis thought to himself as he stared down the barrel of an assault rifle, made three.

"I'd advise you to refrain from calling your guards, your Highness."

"Why?" he said defiantly. "Because you can pull a trigger faster than I can push some buttons?"

"Because as of this moment, I can assure you that they are either unconscious or experiencing some rather horrific hallucinations out in the hallway. I thought I'd spare you the needless effort, although I will concede that your suggestion is perfectly valid as well."

Clovis bristled at the tone – not even a shred of respect, and flippant, as though he dared to find this amusing. Still, the assault rifle spoke louder than either of them, and he kept his posture straight as an arrow. "You have my attention. What can I do for you?"

The man stepped forward, shrinking the gap between them. Although he sported the familiar uniform, body armor, and helmet of a foot soldier, he doubted this man was even in the military at all. No soldier would ever be this impudent, he was sure. "Before anything else: my condolences for the recent deaths of your Royal Guard." (Or perhaps he was wrong; this was an internal affair, and he'd ordered it to be kept strictly under wraps. Well, in that case there would be hell to pay from the officers who conducted basic training.) "I hear you have a suspect in custody."

"The Knight-police are very good at their job." The prince chose his words carefully.

"Oh? That would be interesting, if it were true; that in the wake of the murders of nine soldiers, it took the efforts of a civilian police force to apprehend yet _another _soldier."

Clovis kept his poker face in check, although his grip around the arm rests of the throne tightened somewhat; he hoped it wasn't noticeable. Whoever this man was, he had done his research, and bluffs like the one he had just attempted would probably fail. "What do you want?" he finally asked, narrowing his eyes ever so slightly.

"I see this conversation bores you. Then, I shall cut to the chase: Suzaku Kururugi, the man you have imprisoned, is innocent."

Clovis decided not to feign ignorance, but he didn't show surprise, either: instead, he simply tipped his head and spoke with indifference. "You say that with such certainty."

"And your Highness makes no attempt to deny it?"

"It's unimportant," he shrugged. "Do you have any proof of his supposed 'innocence'? And even if he were, it makes no difference. _Someone _has to pay the price."

There was a short pause, before the man spoke again. "What?"

"It doesn't matter if Kururugi actually pulled the trigger or not. What's important is the message that is sent out." Clovis stood up slowly then, testing his limits; the man didn't respond, except to keep the rifle trained onto his form, following him as he walked languidly away from the throne (because he showed less weakness this way, standing, _moving._) "In spite of his being an Eleven, Suzaku Kururugi is still a soldier of the Empire. If the people see that heinous crimes like these do not go unpunished, even if committed by 'one of our own' so to speak, then perhaps they will think twice about their plans to disrupt the peace in the future."

"So Private Kururugi would be a sacrificial lamb for the sole purpose of securing a conviction?" He supposed a normal person would have cared more about the quiet outrage in the man's tone than he did now, but Clovis was used to much more earnest displays from interest groups and lobbyists; besides, he was trying to place the man's voice, see if it rang any bells. "That's hardly fair."

He shrugged again. "It does not have to be. Regardless, he'll have done the Empire a great service – certainly more than he would have accomplished in decades, had he continued his military career." He heard the telltale click of a safety catch, and stopped moving altogether. "Well then. Are you going to kill me for being unfair?" he called out, keeping his voice free of any emotion.

There was another pause, and it was longer this time; he was just about to start actually fearing for his life when the man cut off his worries with a haughty laugh. "You would think that. How predictable for a man who orders a massacre on a whim."

Clovis gritted his teeth and whirled around to face the man completely, and this time he was angry. "On a whim?! Those terrorists stole a _chemical weapon_, murdered the Royal Guard! If anything, they – !"

"Ah. So not only do you admit that the massacre at Shinjuku was nothing but petty retaliation on your part, but also that you strongly suspect the terrorists to be behind the murders as well, meaning you know _for a fact _that Private Kururugi is innocent."

The prince took a moment to school his breathing. The smirk that appeared on the man's face was far too self-assured for his liking, but despite this he was spot-on. He hadn't come across someone so analytical _and _confident ever since...yes, now that he thought of it, this man reminded him so much of someone else. And if _this_ man came even remotely close to the brilliance of the person he had in mind, then he realized this battle of wits was lost to him before it even began.

"What do you want?"

"I'd like you to drop all charges against Suzaku Kururugi, and arrange for his release."

"Perhaps I'd indulge you if you asked more nicely," Clovis snorted.

"Funny. And here I thought the assault rifle would relieve me of such a tedious endeavor. But no matter. Perhaps I have something that will change your mind."

The man kept the rifle aimed at him with one hand, using the other to search for something beneath the body armor. The maneuvering didn't seem particularly easy, and Clovis used the man's momentary distraction to slip a hand surreptitiously into his own pocket. He found the correct buttons on his phone by touch and memory, and within seconds he had dialed a code that _should_ have sent guards bursting through his doors in an instant.

When nothing of the sort happened, he frowned; it seemed the other man hadn't been bluffing about this after all.

"Have a look, if you please." Despite the dimness of the room, the contrast on the photograph now held up in a gloved hand was good enough for him to see clearly. "See anyone you recognize?"

His eyes flitted over what seemed to be a group of high school students, and although the uniforms looked familiar to him he couldn't quite place to which school they belonged. A grinning schoolboy sat on top of a motorcycle, and took up almost a third of the photo; beside him, a blue-eyed redhead stared timidly back at the camera. There was a maid, three more schoolgirls and then...

His breath caught in his throat when he saw the girl at the right-most part of the picture. She wore a different uniform and was seated on a wheelchair with her hands in her lap. Light brown hair fell in soft waves down to her waist, and her eyes were closed, but clearly not in an accidental blink.

Clovis didn't even realize that he had broken away from his rigid, self-assured posture until he'd lunged for the photograph. "You fiend!!"

"Nunnally Ashford," the man's voice was obnoxiously loud as he swiped the photo just out of the prince's reach. "Middle-school student at Ashford Academy, the latter named in turn for the family that adopted her once she came to the Settlement. Does the name ring any bells?"

It was far too late to deny any knowledge of her now. But that thought, along with any regard for composure and guile, had been roughly shoved into a faraway corner of his mind. "Don't you dare_ – _"

"I'm sorry, how silly of me. Of course you would know her more by her previous name – Nunnally vi Britannia?"

Clovis pulled back immediately, fixing the stranger with a new, critical eye. It was one thing to know (or guess) that he and a certain middle-school girl were somehow connected, and even _that_ was already so much cause for alarm. But it was another thing altogether to pinpoint that exact connection, knowing that Nunnally was not simply of royal descent, but a daughter of the Emperor.

"Who are you?" he demanded.

"Irrelevant," was the bored reply.

"Don't hurt her," he said in a low voice, "or I swear, I'll – "

"Once again your immediate assumption of my objectives is one involving violence. How insulting." The photograph was withdrawn, and in no time it was lost within the uniform, both hands now steady on the rifle. "I suppose I understand your concern, though. After all, her disabilities aside, being sent to a foreign country on the other side of the world just a few months after her mother's assassination must have been nothing short of traumatic. But all things considered, it's certainly better than the fate you assigned to her: the official report is that when Marianne vi Britannia, consort of his Majesty, was gunned down by terrorists, her only daughter was fatally caught in the crossfire. Tragic, isn't it?"

If this conversation had made him anxious before, he no longer knew what he was _now_, with his blood like ice and his heart threatening to leap out of his chest. It took all of his self-control, and then some, to keep the dread from seeping into his voice. "How do you know about that?"

"You would be surprised, your Highness, how easy it is to find just about any information you seek, so long as you know where – and how – to look."

Clovis kept silent, deciding not to press on. The only ones who were even remotely aware of this were the Ashfords and the Royal Family, although he could not discount the possibility of eavesdropping servants or staff. And since _these _persons numbered in the hundreds, a leak could have come from anywhere.

"I can't imagine that not being able to speak with her, to even see her from that moment on, was worth the lie," he continued.

"It doesn't matter," the prince replied in a steely voice.

"Of course it does. You were rather close to her, were you not?"

(_"You're the only son of Lady Gabrielle?"_ a young Nunnally had asked him when they first met, many years ago. _"I'm somewhat the same. If you want, we can be each other's brother and sister then. We'll be special!"_ And she had sounded so sure of herself then, big blue eyes shining like the sky.)

"Do not push me, _Private_," he seethed. He very badly wished that the guards had been here minutes ago. "The consequences will be unpleasant."

"I'm sorry, your Highness." The man sounded anything but; certainly, the chances that this stranger before him was an actual soldier had dwindled to almost nothing since their conversation began. "But you must concede that it was a steep price to pay for her exile. Would it not have been so much simpler to have let her remain in Britannia?"

It _would _have, he thought; then she would have been safe, and he never would have left. But apparently their father thought otherwise. And... "It's complicated." It always had been.

"Would his Highness care to expound on that?"

"I have no obligation to do so," he said sharply. He'd had about enough of this man and this unnerving conversation. But a meaningful tilt of the assault rifle, and a gloved finger ever-so-slightly pressing down on the trigger, informed him otherwise.

"Let's be civil now. We'll be enjoying each other's company for still some time, after all."

Clovis stared impassively at the weapon, refusing to meet his opponent's eyes. He wondered how much time he had if he chose to wait this out, in the hopes that his guards would finally come in. The man did say they were unconscious or hallucinating – not dead. And if this man had really wanted to kill him, he would have done so by now; would he be tempting fate a bit too much by refusing to cooperate? But simply imagining that they traded places – he with a gun, this 'soldier' unarmed – was enough to give him his answer.

He sighed, closing his eyes in defeat. It wasn't as if anything he had to say even mattered anymore.

"Nunnally was supposed to be a political hostage," he murmured. "At that time, Japan was blatantly using its sakuradite as leverage to put pressure on Britannia. My father wanted to send Nunnally to live in the Prime Minister's household, hoping that in the future...I'm sure you know how it goes."

"Unfortunately, I do. I have to wonder, though, about the wisdom of sending a blind and disabled little girl all alone to a would-be enemy nation thousands of miles away, let alone live in the house of Kururugi."

"We protested it," he admitted, recalling the events not too fondly: Euphy's tears, Cornelia brooding as she hunted for the culprits, the deal he had made with Schneizel (because only Schneizel, then, carried the best hope of having the Emperor's ear.) "So the plan was changed. Until she was old enough, she was to stay with the Ashfords instead."

"Supporters of the late Marianne."

"Yes," he said. It was irritating, how this man seemed to know almost every little detail, no matter how inane.

"I see. But the Pacific War erupted before that could happen, which currently leaves her in something of a political limbo." The man's voice was cold as he deconstructed the implications. "She cannot leave Area 11 without compromising her own safety, as well as that of the Ashfords. Neither can she stake her claim to the throne, now or in any foreseeable future. Your father's gambit doomed his own daughter from the start."

He didn't reply, choosing to glare at the floor. The last of those didn't need to be said. While he didn't harbor any particular resentment towards the Emperor, he loved Nunnally more. He always wished that the older man hadn't discarded her like that, with barely a second thought to her own welfare. Providence had saved her – had she been living with Genbu, after all, who knew what would have happened to her after the former committed a much-publicized suicide? – but if it hadn't been for her exile, empty and purposeless to begin with, that concession wouldn't even mean anything at all.

"Am I correct, then," the man quipped, "to assume that she is the reason you specifically requested to become Viceroy of Area 11?"

"I just wanted to do everything I could to make sure she was safe."

"I see. And do you think you're doing a good job?"

Clovis laughed bitterly. "Not nearly good enough. That's why I'm stepping down."

There was a slight pause, as the man lowered his rifle and released the trigger completely. "Oh?"

"You don't even sound surprised," he noted. "After these recent mishaps, the outcome would have been the same anyway." Meaning, had he chosen to cling to his position, it would have been stripped from him violently regardless. And it wasn't as though he would be any closer to seeing Nunnally by staying. At least this way, by claiming responsibility, he would avoid a bigger scandal – and, quite possibly, disinheritance. "I will be making the announcement tomorrow night."

"Who will be taking your place?"

"Princess Cornelia." Perhaps she was what this Area needed, or at least, someone of her strict presence and ruthlessness, she who had seen to the fall of the resistance movement in Area 18. He wasn't proud of having her clean up the mess he would be leaving behind, but someone had to do it, and he could think of no-one better for the job. He was supposed to meet her this evening, but a last-minute change of plans – silly Euphy had broken her leg performing some dubious stunt that was remarkably unlike her – derailed that. "You can petition _her_ with your request regarding Kururugi then."

"Indeed I can, but why wait? You're still Viceroy until you announce otherwise, your Highness, so I would like to ask you again: please drop all the charges against Private Kururugi – "

"Or else what?" he snapped. "What is that boy to you?"

"Irrelevant. The only thing that matters is what _Nunnally _is to _you._"

"You will not hurt her," Clovis seethed. "I will hunt you down. I will have Kururugi _executed_. I will have Cornelia review every single – "

"Neither of us has to do any of those things you just said," the man cut in smoothly. "Certainly, between the two of us, we can come to a solution that doesn't involve such extreme measures?"

"Kururugi is the prime suspect in _nine _counts of – "

"Framed. You and I both know it. Is it worth it to stick to this scapegoat? What if Nunnally – ?"

"_Stay away from my sister!!_"

Clovis bit back a snarl as the room echoed with his outburst. A subtle vibration from his phone informed him that the guards were finally, _finally _on their way, but he did not care. He barely even cared about the gun still trained onto him as he stepped forward, rendered reckless by anger.

"I wouldn't dream of hurting her." The reply he got was still as calm and collected as ever. "You have my word. In fact, the only hand I am willing to play is this: if you won't release Private Kururugi, I'll simply tell her the truth. All of it. Perhaps I'll even be doing her a favor; she's certainly entitled to it, wouldn't you say?"

He glowered. "She'll never believe you."

"You're right," came the assent. "Certainly not me."

The stranger replaced his hand onto the trigger, depressing it – but only slightly, not nearly enough to fire. And after a moment's pause, an artificial recording filtered throughout the room: "_'Let's be civil now. We'll be enjoying each other's company for still some time, after all._'..._'Nunnally was supposed to be a political hostage. At that time - '_"

Clovis found himself unable to speak for a few seconds – shock, dread, disbelief, the usual culprits had him in their clutches – even after the man tapped the trigger once more, stopping the recording. They both heard the muffled stampede from the hallway then, and the sound was rapidly drawing closer. "You... Is that...?"

"Results, your Highness." The man gave him the customary bow, one knee bent and one hand over his heart. "Not methods."

He was on his feet merely seconds before the door burst open, as though this whole endeavor had been crucially timed. The man smashed his rifle against the window, shattering it completely. He jumped out without a moment's hesitation just as two dozen guards piled into the room, shooting uselessly after his shadow.

"Down! Down!" Clovis called hoarsely, when he finally regained his voice. They were ten floors up, but he wouldn't be surprised if the man had a carefully-planned escape. "Retrieve the weapon at all costs! Shoot him dead if you must!"

"Yes, your Highness!"

But all they would end up finding were a discarded helmet and several splotches of blood, already being washed away by the rain.

* * *

It wasn't until eight in the morning that the sky finally cleared, although it was still dark and refused to show sunshine.

Despite only having gotten five hours of sleep or so, L.L. was perfectly alert as he reclined on the couch. In one hand, he held a cup of coffee, now half-empty; in the other, he fiddled with something that looked like an ammunition clip, intently watching the news.

"..._Guard were found dead of multiple gunshot wounds in a Shinjuku subway tunnel at around 6 p.m. the other evening. The Knight-police had an initial suspect in custody, who has been released due to lack of sufficient evidence as of this morning. The local authorities and Britannian military have resumed searching for the perpetrator, and are asking for any leads to be communicated via_..."

L.L. smiled to himself, taking a languid sip. Clovis had behaved exactly as predicted, but for this one instance he didn't mind at all.

Once the shopkeeper had shown him how to work the voice recorder – stuffing it into the receptacle of an unloaded assault rifle, where it snapped crisply into place – it had been easy to fix the actual microphone onto the tip of the trigger. The rifle itself then was just a bluff, but oftentimes the mere sight of a gun was more than enough to ensure cooperation.

It was then that the phone rang, and he clicked off the television, walking to his desk.

The option the Third Prince had chosen was the wiser one, from any viewpoint he could imagine. Even if they couldn't be seen together in public, he was willing to bet that Clovis and Nunnally were at least communicating with each other somehow; certainly he wouldn't want this relationship, or what was left of it, ruined for the sake of parading an innocent convict, especially since his political career in Area 11 had already been doomed to hell and back.

The other members of the Royal Family played a role in his gamble as well: if the Emperor learned that Clovis was responsible for Nunnally's learning the truth, disinheritance was a certainty. Then there was also the matter of Nunnally's safety, if she chose to _act _on this information, but that was a long shot.

And besides – "Hello?" – that last thought was actually a risk that he would rather not entertain.

"Yes, hi," he replied as soon as he heard her voice: young and sweet, almost still like a child's, it reminded him of bells, the small ones that sang high and prettily, and never failed to put him at ease. "...No, everything's fine. I'm terribly sorry I wasn't able to make it last night..." And the apology he gave was truly sincere. "But I'll make it up to you. When are your exams? ...All right, I'll definitely see you before then. Yes...yes, of course. I promise."

All obstacles of his recent mission finally cleared, the only thing left to do was find Suzaku again. At least_ this_, L.L. thought as he clipped off the microphone and tossed it into the fireplace, would be a much easier task. He had all the time in the world.

"Thank you so much for understanding...Nunnally."

* * *

Notes for Chapter 4:

- In R2, Lelouch, as Zero, uses a very similar tactic to the one seen in this chapter: he secretly records what should have been a private conversation with the Eunuchs, but (instead of using it for blackmail) he then promptly has Diethard leak the recording onto the internet. This leads to public outrage and ultimately ends with civilian uprisings all over the Chinese Federation.

- Apparently, they really do make voice recorders, video cameras, and other similar bugs that look like everything: pens, power strips, wall sockets, you name it.

- Despite his lackluster performance as a military commander, I do believe Clovis would have made an excellent diplomat. He saw through all the haze of politics for what it was – a sham – and seemed perfectly capable of having his wits about him even when alone and held at gunpoint (it's only when he finds out his attacker is Lelouch that he finally freaks out.)

- While Suzaku/Euphemia is as close to a canon-OTP as I'm ever going to have, I'm not really a fan of how they met, with her _literally_ falling right into his arms. Plus, as you may have noticed, the timing wouldn't have worked with this story. Still, I believe they're fated to meet no matter which universe they live in, so let's see if I can offer something a bit better when that happens.

Review-responses! Yay~!

**Mithluin** – There's just something about Suzaku and Kallen that sparks conflict; it's a pity we never get a chance to see them working together, but because they're both very passionate about what they believe in, this thrusts them on opposite sides of any spectrum. I hope I can explore this a bit more in the near future (of this fic). Also, Ohgi's role is honestly still up in the air for me; while I've made a rough outline of the narrative, role-fitting is something I do as I go along. *hugs back* Thanks =).

**S. Warfield** – Sorting through (and double-checking) all the technical details can get a bit overwhelming at times, but 'all for the fic,' I guess, particularly if someone like L.L. or Lloyd is 'narrating' that segment. But hey, thanks for mentioning it!

**Meshik –** Thank you! L.L. and Lloyd – definitely, possibly, maybe =).

**xanimelover121x** – I love, love, love that you think they're all IC. Seriously, that is the best compliment anyone can give me, so thanks very much!

**A non a miss –** Again, I appreciate that you gave it a shot. Hopefully what happened at the end of last chapter was cleared up in this one =).

**Mystra-chan06** – Whee! If nothing else, this story has given me an excuse to re-watch the anime (for dialogue, little details, all that fun stuff) so I'm not complaining!

**Spunkay Skunk –** Yeah, long chapter was long, hahaha. I appreciate that you sat through all the science stuff; upon re-reading it, I realized 'hmm that _was_ quite a lot.' Still thinking about whether or not that soldier is significant myself, or what Villetta and Jeremiah's ultimate destinies will be. In the anime, Villetta stumbles upon 'Alan Spencer' (lol) by accident, but here, I didn't think Jeremiah would send his second-in-command to do veritable grunt work. Anyway, I hope you didn't have to wait _too _long for this, and thanks for another wonderful review.

**Murderous Phantom** – Thanks! Hope the delay for this one wasn't too bad, though =).

**Lady Nogitsune –** Suzaku is always huggable as far as I am concerned =). But, I'm glad you like how I'm writing the boys so far; Lelouch – always a challenge, to be honest. A lot of over-analyzing went into _this_ chapter as well, but I hope you enjoyed the copious amounts of Clovis!

**Blackrose2005** – No worries, if anything _this chapter _is unforgivably late, lol. We don't actually 'see' Nunnally yet, but she'll be coming soon, and I suppose this chapter already dropped a few hints as to what she's going to be like, if only through her backstory. It's awesome that you like all the technical stuff! And yes, Hax!zaku never takes the easy (and thus predictable) way out. Of _anything_. XD (Thanks for the condolences.)

**nachan –** Thanks; I love Suzaku too 3. Yay!

**Vestis** – Thanks for reading! I'll try to update sooner from now on as well; emphasis on 'try', because school always gets in the way, sigh.

**Arathe –** I somehow felt, before writing this fic, that it needed to have a strong/powerful opening, so I'm really glad you like that scene. The biggest difficulty I've had so far is with the timing, since every little thing can be scrutinized against the canon timeline. So far I think I'm surviving, haha, but thanks so much for the support!

**Seriyuu –** Oh, Clovis didn't die (I guess this chapter cements that); it was the murders of his Royal Guard that Jeremiah was arresting Suzaku for, sorry if the wording was vague. Nonetheless, thanks for your review! Lelouch = evil genius of the century, oh yes.

**Persephone1 –** Glad you like it! I don't usually dabble into _writing _AUs myself, but the premise really caught my eye when I read the prompt. Thanks for giving it a shot!

**GreenOnBlack –** Thank you!

I am so sorry this took so long to come out; April is the last month of the Winter semester, so the past two weeks have been filled with exams, assignments, papers, presentations and other _fun_ stuff like that. A lot of rearranging happened, since I decided halfway through that linear time flow would be better for this chapter, and so there you have the final structure. The segment with L.L. and Clovis – the crux of this chapter, really – turned out to be quite a bit harder than I'd envisioned, but I hope I was able to pull it off. If anything, it's shown us how the absence of Lelouch vi Britannia altered not only the relationships among members of the Royal Family, but also ended up affecting the politics at play.

Next chapter: L.L. and Suzaku finally meet again yay.

Anyway, thank you all so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed this chapter (long delay aside). Reviews, as always, would be more than welcome =).


	5. Stage 05: The Gambler and the Schoolboy

Disclaimer: _Code Geass_ – with its characters, settings, and all other borrowed elements here – is the sole property of its creators. I do this purely for my own entertainment, and (hopefully) that of my readers as well.

Opening lines of this chapter are taken from Coldplay's _Lovers in Japan, _which in itself isn't supposed to mean anything. (...Yet.)

Warnings for this chapter: The usual (language and violence), and something new: references to mature themes, which may not be suitable for young readers.

Enjoy!

* * *

_A good day is foretold by its morning._ So went the saying, but if that was true then Kururugi Suzaku had no idea what to expect of his life between now and midnight.

He tugged on the stubborn drawstring of the duffel bag slung over his shoulder, looping it twice around his hand – this way, it sat higher and would not bang insistently against his legs as he walked. He craned his neck and spared a final glance at the looming facade of the holding center where, barely an hour ago, he was gruffly informed that all of the charges against him had been dropped and that he was free to do as he pleased.

This sudden one-eighty definitely wasn't unwelcome; it was just confusing as hell.

Suzaku pushed his sunglasses further up the bridge of his nose, and he kept his head slightly bowed as he moved through the typical weekday morning throng of downtown Tokyo. He wasn't wearing the flight suit anymore (thank _heavens_), having swapped it for a more casual ensemble that wasn't as scandalous in public. But even with this, and even knowing fully well that nobody out on these streets would recognize either the Lancelot's pilot or a recent murder suspect, uneasiness nagged at him. He felt as though he should still go out of his way to be as inconspicuous as humanly possible.

He eventually stopped at the entrance to a popular shopping center several blocks away. He wasn't entirely sure how long he had to wait here – '_we might be a little late!'_ Cécile's text message had read, followed by a smiley that was supposed to be either a rabbit or something else entirely, but he didn't mind as long as he could get a ride.

Sitting on the concrete steps, he watched the Settlement breathe in front of him: students and office workers rushing this way and that, a limousine waiting at the red light, street vendors selling crepes wrapped in wax paper. He briefly wondered what the chaos would be like if the terrorists released the poison gas here, with all these people, before he shook his head and convinced himself that he didn't want to think about it.

The soldier's thoughts eventually drifted somewhere closer to home: the order for his release had come directly from the Viceroy, it seemed, and while he was more than grateful for that, it still left a lot of questions unanswered. Prince Clovis would be the last person in the world to pardon the suspected murderer of his Royal Guard...unless they had another suspect in mind? But Jeremiah had made it clear that they weren't _looking_ for anyone else, so that didn't make a whole lot of sense either.

It wasn't hard at all to spy the A.S.E.E.C.'s trailer as it rounded the corner, and he was almost relieved at the distraction. Shooing those unwanted thoughts out of his head, Suzaku jumped to his feet and jogged up to the vehicle, climbing in just as its hazard lights began to flash.

Both Cécile and the unfamiliar driver, sporting identical uniforms, greeted him as he climbed into the very back seat, struggling with the duffel bag all the way. The trailer began to move forward, and he buckled his seatbelt...thinking to himself that maybe now things could finally begin to settle down, and that maybe his day could proceed with at least some semblance of normalcy and no more drastic surprises?

This was when Lloyd turned around to face him, grinning from ear-to-ear. "Congratulations! On both your release _and_ your promotion, Warrant Officer Kururugi. Also: you're going back to school!"

* * *

**.**

_Lovers, keep on the road you're on_

_Runners, until the race is won_

_Soldiers, you've got to soldier on_

_Sometimes even right is wrong_

**.**

**Bird's-Eye View**

Stage 05

**. : The Gambler and the Schoolboy : .**

When he finally reached the door to his quarters in the barracks, Suzaku braced his hand against the surface, hung his head, and heaved a very long, very exhausted sigh.

The last twelve hours had been a practical whirlwind, spent hauling boxes of documents, gadgets, and miles of wiring as Lloyd gleefully called out orders: "We're relocating our headquarters!" the comical man had declared, and their division's new base of operations would now be a converted warehouse rented on the campus grounds of an elite university. Conveniently, the latter was situated right across Ashford Academy, where – and he was the _last _to learn this – he would be attending class as a sophomore starting tomorrow morning.

Naturally, his first instinct was to question this assignment, which came from _practically nowhere._ But Lloyd's animated response involved more hand-waving than actual words, so he'd nodded and smiled and turned to Cécile instead: apparently A.S.E.E.C.'s personnel all had to clear a minimum number of secondary credits, and while it wouldn't have been much of an issue had he just remained a devicer, that lenience could no longer hold now that he was actually an officer.

There was _that_, too, he thought as he pressed his forehead against the back of his hand. The cloth of his new beret scraped against the wood in protest, and he didn't need to look down to remember he was now decked in A.S.E.E.C.'s orange-colored uniform, complete with green armband and knee-high boots that were decidedly _not _made for combat. The sudden, equally left-field promotion had come directly from Cornelia li Britannia, he'd learned, who would be taking over as Viceroy of Area 11 ("Prince Clovis stepped down?" he'd blurted out rather dumbly then, to which Lloyd merely laughed and opined how ludicrous it was, that so much had changed so dramatically in the one night he was in jail.)

Suzaku fumbled for the key in his pocket, barely biting back a groan when he remembered that this day was not quite over yet. Lloyd had given him only until tomorrow to pack up and vacate this room completely, so he could move into his new residence on campus right after school. Not that he had all that much to pack, but after a long day dominated by heavy lifting and trying to wrap his head around too many new and sudden developments, all he wanted to do was crawl into bed and sleep until Thursday.

The tumblers in the lock finally clicked, after much more effort than usual. He pushed the door open with his weight, stifling a yawn.

But instead of the silence he had been expecting, what greeted him was a pair of violet eyes, and this: "Welcome home."

Suzaku yanked the door shut once more, not even realizing it until he heard the loud slam echoing in the hallway.

_Was that...?_

He shook his head violently, green eyes wide and now very, very much awake. He was losing it, he immediately concluded. Yes, that was the only explanation, because its alternative meant that L.L., or at least someone who matched his features with disturbing precision, was in his room, sitting at his desk and _very much alive. _

No, he must have just imagined it, his mind reasoned. Even though he ought to be perturbed that he was imagining a dead man, still, this made the most sense. Maybe the fatigue was to blame. Or Lloyd, but mostly it was the fatigue. This was silly, and more than a little ridiculous; what he needed to do was pack his things, get some sleep, and stop thinking about dead people.

Satisfied that he now had a short-term plan, Suzaku took a deep breath, waited for his heart to slow down (when had it begun racing?), and cracked open his door. Nudging it open inch by inch, he peered through the slowly-growing gap until he saw the desk, then the chair: empty.

He closed his eyes and let out a sigh of relief –

"For God's sake, make up your mind: in or out?"

– only to topple over as the door he had been leaning on was roughly pulled open from the inside. His fight-or-flight response kicked in before he even hit the floor, and apparently chose the latter: stumbling, almost tripping in his haste, Suzaku bolted with a decidedly undignified yelp of surprise.

L.L. merely stared at him. "You're fast," he commented nonchalantly, smiling as he closed the door with a soft click.

Wait...had he – ?

It was only then that Suzaku calmed down, barely enough to feel the wall against his back; he'd run _into _the room. _Fuck._

"Y-you..." His voice was pathetic, strangled, when he finally remembered how to speak. He remained plastered against the wall, as though keeping as much distance between them would help him make sense of the situation. "You're supposed to be – "

"Dead?" L.L. finished with a wry smile when it became clear that he would not be able to do so. The raising of an elegant eyebrow accentuated his amusement. "While I will concede the obvious and not waste both our time recounting every bloody detail of taking a bullet to the chest, I can assure you I've been through much worse, Private Kururugi. Or, pardon me..." A quick sweep of his gaze from head to toe and back again unnerved him more than he'd ever thought possible, only to be outdone by the man sauntering his way. "What is it now? Sergeant?"

"Don't – don't come near me!" The warning didn't quite come out as forceful as he'd wished. Withdrawing the small sidearm he'd been issued – _thank you, A.S.E.E.C., thank you, promotion_ – from its holster, he had it aimed between those eyes before their owner had taken two steps. He clicked off the safety catch immediately, and swallowed; he desperately hoped that his arm was not shaking.

L.L. glanced at the gun once, before his gaze flickered back to his face. "You're quite slow on the uptake, aren't you?"

If there was anything good to be said about that comment, at least the sudden irritation it sparked took away some of his nervousness. "What?"

"I would have thought you'd realized this by now, but I do not fear guns, Sergeant."

"Warrant Officer!" he snapped, stubbornly keeping aim despite what he'd just heard. The man didn't seem to be armed, and he wondered if he could disable him somehow (an opening, a quick jab to the neck?) long enough to restrain him. He had no idea what was to come next; maybe he could turn him over to Lloyd, make this whole affair _his _problem –

"Whatever you're planning, please don't." L.L. raised his hands calmly in the air. "I came here bearing no ill will. And even if I did want to hurt you, well – don't you think I would have done so by now?"

Despite all rational thought suggesting otherwise, Suzaku found himself slowly lowering the gun, repeating that last thought over and over in his head until it could finally take root. The point was a valid one, he eventually had to admit. And if their first meeting in the tunnel was anything to go by, this man didn't stand a chance against him in any form of combat imaginable, especially now that the element of surprise was long gone.

Still, it answered none of the most pertinent questions. "Why are you here?"

L.L. tipped his head before unceremoniously perching himself onto the edge of the bed. He couldn't tell if the pants were the same, but tonight the man had foregone the red jacket and turtleneck in favor of a white dress shirt, sleeves rolled up and several of the top buttons left undone. (An office worker, then? But the article was too nondescript for him to associate with any particular uniform, so it was pointless trying to guess.)

"Several hours of research eventually led me to this building. Two hundred pounds each at reception and maintenance gave me your room number and a skeleton key." He smiled. "Imagine that. It's rather convenient, in hindsight, that you gave me your real name at Shinjuku. Otherwise, I would have had to go through so much more trouble just to find you."

"Well, you got me," Suzaku muttered, trying to discern what exactly 'research' was supposed to mean. With this whole encounter seeming less and less like a horrible hallucination, he was now forced to re-evaluate what he knew: maybe he'd been wrong all along. Maybe the bullet wound hadn't been as fatal as he'd thought? It wasn't entirely farfetched to imagine that the bullet had missed anything vital, after all. "Did you want something?"

"I must say, I like you much better when you're polite." L.L. merely laughed at the glare sent his way. "Who's to say I needed anything in particular? Perhaps I just happened to come by, see how you were doing?"

He highly doubted that, but he didn't say it aloud. "I...I'm fine," he mumbled. "Is that all?"

"Hardly." L.L. stretched out his legs in front of him (long, slender legs, a part of him noted curiously) and peered intently at his feet, as though mocking him. "Are you in that much of a hurry to get rid of me?"

Suzaku kept quiet at that, staring at this strange man on his bed as though he _still_ weren't quite sure he was real. Here, away from the shadows of the tunnel and bathed in genuine white light, the jet black of his hair stood out, almost glistening. His eyes were almost the same, an arresting shade of violet he wasn't sure he'd ever seen before. And he was pale as well, something he hadn't particularly noticed at Shinjuku either – the unlikely complexion made his eyes pop all the more, and it was an even, nigh-unblemished (almost ethereal?) tone, from the roots of his hair down his neck, to the glimpse of flesh above and around his collarbone, peeking out from the open folds at the front of his shirt...

He swallowed on a dry throat.

And then he jerked, tossing the gun sharply towards the head of the bed. L.L. followed the motion with an instinctual, fleeting glance, but that split second was all it took for Suzaku to _move_; by the time the weapon first bounced off the mattress, he already had the other man pinned against the bedframe by his shoulders, knees locked beneath his own.

Somehow, L.L. looked only mildly startled. "Fast," he commented again. "And surprisingly clever. Well then. Now what?"

But the soldier barely heard him, mind closed to his self-imposed task. Shifting his weight, he pressed his forearm across L.L.'s shoulder blades and used his now-free hand to pull away the cloth near his grasp. A single, persistent thought nagged at him: because even if he was wrong and the bullet hadn't been fatal, _the wound should still be there_, his mind insisted. He'd seen blood, after all; hell, he'd _heard_ blood, and that entire memory was still rather vivid, even now.

Perhaps it was the agitation, or that he'd underestimated his own strength; either way, he ended up yanking a bit too hard, and at least two of the buttons popped free.

The lean torso was like porcelain, pale as the rest of him, and just as flawless.

"You..." he breathed, retracting his hand immediately. "What are...how did you...?"

"I must say, Warrant Officer Kururugi, I never quite pegged you as the type to be so aggressively forward."

Suzaku blinked hard when the flippant declaration finally sank in, and only then did he realize the compromising position he'd placed them in. Heat flushed his cheeks, and he wanted to think that most of it was due to anger. "That's not – !"

There was a sudden movement in his peripheral vision, and his eyes darted to the source. What they laid upon: fingers, long and slender, of L.L.'s right hand, tips pressed together.

(He'd stretched out his arm. What on earth – ?)

A light but well-aimed jab of a finger between his ribs sent him teetering off-balance. With a startled gasp he tried to brace both hands against the mattress, but L.L. caught one of his wrists before it could connect. He used the other hand – the one that had _distracted _him – to push backward against the bed, releasing his legs. But instead of squirming free, he used the torque to flip them over instead. And so Suzaku very soon found himself flat against the bed, one arm twisted painfully behind his back and the other pinned above his head.

Well, this was rather humiliating: he'd fallen for his own damn trick.

"However, as I'm sure you know, I rather prefer it _this _way."

Suzaku growled under his breath, and would have _thrown_ this man off of him had it not been for the two fingers pressed lightly, almost carelessly, against the pressure point at his carotid. A part of him almost wanted to laugh: _ky__ū__sho_, he'd learned this was called, more than a decade ago from Tohdoh. So much as an ill-timed jerk on his part would land him unconscious without L.L. even having to move. And the self-assured smirk now filling his vision told him this man knew that very well.

"Don't think that your promotion has changed anything." L.L. raised his voice for some inexplicable reason as he said this, despite the fact that they were merely inches apart. "Our previous arrangement still holds, is that clear, _Kururugi?_"

No. Far from _anything_ being clear, he wanted to say, he didn't have the faintest clue as to what L.L. was going on about. But when he opened his mouth to speak, those thrice-damned fingers pressed down ever so slightly.

(A warning. Of course.)

At that moment L.L. cocked his head towards the closed door, tilting it in an almost comical, self-mocking fashion. After a few awkward seconds of this, he sighed softly, relieving the pressure on the soldier's neck.

"There. You can thank me now."

"_Excuse_ me?" Suzaku hissed. His first choice had been to yell, but those digits were still lingering on his neck. "What for?"

"Many things, if you want to be technical. But the most recent would be how I dissuaded the man who was at your door just seconds ago from coming in and demanding explicitly from you a certain something that I merely alluded to."

Suzaku felt the blood drain rapidly from his face.

"Well, I only _assume_ that's what he came for, given this late hour," L.L. continued smoothly. "I also took the liberty of assuming that you wouldn't be entirely enthusiastic to oblige him. But if I'm wrong, do let me know so that I can call him back. He should still be in the hallway."

He shook his head mutely then, nailing his gaze to the rumpled sheets and trying valiantly to push _those_ thoughts – of rough, groping hands, of sweat and pain and the bruises they would leave, of sinister chuckles far too close for comfort ("_You're a natural at this, aren't you?_") – into a faraway corner of his mind.

"Platoon leader?"

The soldier glanced up sharply. "What?"

L.L. shrugged. "I only ask because anyone of a higher rank than the one you hold now probably wouldn't have been deterred by my bluff. I'm certain you know how much weight a simple title holds when you're in the military. But of course, all this means is that those _without_ such honors find themselves in situations where their options are very few, and seldom pleasant." The man eased himself off of him and stood up, folding his arms across his chest. His eyes were intense, calculating, but there was a certain softness in his gaze that hadn't been there before. "I'm sure you know this very well," he finished quietly.

Suzaku sat up in a slow, wary fashion, subconsciously rubbing his throat, then his wrist. "...Thank you," he mumbled after a very long pause, although he wasn't sure if he was more grateful for the uncanny favor he'd been done, or for the words that _hadn't_ been said.

"You're welcome." He didn't know if he was just imagining it (he probably was, really), but it seemed as though L.L.'s eyes were positively glittering as he regarded him now. "It's good to see that that man made good on his promise."

Caught between asking 'what man' and 'what promise', he instead ended up voicing an unintelligent "Huh?"

"Earl Asplund," the other man explained patiently, "assured me the other day that he would 'fix' you. Seeing as you're alive and well, I'd say he completed his task rather handily."

Him, Cécile, and his father's pocketwatch, Suzaku wanted to say at first, but the dropped hint was not lost on him, and he abandoned the thought in favor of something else: "So it's true, then. You were the one who saved me in Shinjuku."

L.L. smiled at him. "You'd already figured it out? Perhaps you're not as slow as I thought."

"I had a hunch," he admitted, following the man with his eyes as he walked back towards the desk in the corner of the room. "But I wasn't sure."

"You mean, you kept second-guessing yourself because your hunch didn't seem entirely plausible?"

That was a huge understatement, if truth be told. "Something like that."

"No matter." L.L. took a hold of the chair near the desk, pulled it a bit closer to the foot of the bed, and made himself comfortable there. "Again, you're quite welcome."

Suzaku broke away from that unnerving stare, focusing instead on his hands now clasped tightly around his knees. His heart was no longer racing, but the same couldn't be said of his mind.

He knew fully well that he should be doing _something _right now, something other than just sitting here and making small talk with this strange, strange man. But for the life of him he didn't know what to do and where to start; there were no protocols for such odd situations like this, and although it was a silly thing to imagine he now sorely wished there were.

"...How in the world are you still alive?" he finally dared to ask.

A rich chuckle was all he got for his efforts. Slowly, deliberately, L.L. crossed his legs, bracing an elbow against the back of the chair and resting his chin on his hand. "Returning to that train of thought, are we?"

"I saw you take that bullet," he insisted. No matter how many times he played it over and over in his head, the scenario was still the same: the crack of a gunshot, the thud of a body hitting the floor, the gushing of blood until _his _turn came, and then everything stopped and he would rewind it again. "Is it..." And then he remembered something else, an earlier event and the rather eerie exchange he'd thought nothing of before then: "Does it have something to do with what you were 'offering' me back there?"

For a brief moment, he could have sworn he saw surprise register in those violet eyes.

But all too soon it was gone (if it were ever even there at all), and their owner broke into his familiar, confident smirk. "Very perceptive," he breathed. "Well, supposing you are right: then, what if it does?"

Suzaku blinked, suddenly lost. "I don't know...I just – "

"Interested?"

He frowned. "I didn't say – "

"Good," L.L. interrupted him again. "Like I said before, I wouldn't be too thrilled to grant such a gift to a dog of Britannia."

Suzaku didn't know if he should be offended by that, or if this was what would be expected of him. But sheer confusion overpowered anything and everything even remotely resembling offense. "Then why are you _here?_" he blurted out.

"I told you, I wanted to see how you were doing," L.L. replied in a bored tone, "and how you fared under the medical care of an engineer."

"Well you have your answer." The wound in his side had been a minor nuisance all day, what with the moving and the lifting, and the fact that he really ought to have changed the bandages but never found the time. There was also the telltale beginning of a headache now, stewing behind his eyes and threatening to grow much, much worse; this was the price to pay for skipping lunch _and _dinner, he thought miserably, but if anything was going to push it over the edge into a full-blown migraine, it was probably going to be _this conversation_. "Why are you still – ?"

"Why are you still in the military?"

The seemingly-inane question was asked at roughly the same time, and probably on purpose. The soldier squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed them furiously. "_What._"

"Promotion notwithstanding, after what the Royal Guard did to you, I'd have expected you to cut all ties with the military, if not even Britannia herself." He paused for a while, before quickly adding: "I'm assuming they _were _the ones who shot you, am I right?"

Suzaku nodded, withdrawing his hand and blinking away the spots in his vision. L.L. was looking at him keenly now, he noticed, and although he'd stopped being afraid of this man (innocent or not, _human _or not) minutes ago, it was still somewhat disconcerting. "But it doesn't matter, they..."

He trailed off then, but was rewarded with only the slightest furrowing of brows. "They what?"

"Well...they were murdered."

"...Oh. That's...surprising. All of them?"

He nodded again. "You didn't know?" he asked, surprised.

L.L. shook his head slowly, face blank. "I'm afraid I don't know anything about that."

It was uncanny that he didn't, Suzaku mused, given how he seemed to know almost everything else to the point of near-omniscience. Briefly he considered mentioning how he'd been wrongfully accused of that very crime, before dismissing the thought in an instant; this man already knew so much about him, almost disturbingly so, and he didn't need to add any more to that. "I don't know all that much myself," he said instead.

"It's all right. I imagine working for a man like Lloyd Asplund leaves you with little time to immerse yourself in current affairs." L.L. leaned back a little and jerked a thumb towards the manual of the Lancelot, sitting on his desk. "It seems most, if not all of his motivation to save you that day stemmed from wanting to hire you. Or was it the other way around?"

Suzaku shrugged; he honestly didn't know. "I'm going to be a devicer for A.S.E.E.C." Even now, the words didn't feel real as they tumbled out of his lips, as though he were still uttering a farfetched dream, a wish, not a simple fact. And... "That's why I'm staying."

"You still believe you can change the system from within?" L.L. turned to face him completely again, but the lighthearted flippancy was gone from both his tone and features. "A system borne of centuries of politics and warfare alike, built upon the backs of Numbers the whole world over, nourished by their blood – you can't change that with one machine."

"But it's a start!" he argued. "Sir Lloyd, Miss Cécile, the staff at A.S.E.E.C. – it doesn't matter to them that I'm an Eleven. They didn't – "

"And what about Prince Clovis? Or the Royal Guard, who condoned their captain shooting you, an _ally_, from behind? Or the officers from your platoon?" The man didn't elaborate any more after that, but although he spoke in a level voice with his features carefully neutral, there was a hint of something raw and bitter in his words. "Several exceptions do not refute the rule, they only prove it."

"Still." Suzaku clenched his fists and stared at the floor. L.L. was right about that, of course, but... "You have to understand...just the other day the idea of an Eleven piloting a Knightmare was unheard of, it was _impossible_. But now..." He glanced up and met sober eyes, suddenly earnest. "The system can change," he declared. "Maybe slowly, maybe painfully, but...it _can_ change."

Because he'd had no illusions that this endeavor would ever be an easy one, even before when it was just a hazy, uncharted dream. What L.L. said was never going to be discounted, not in this lifetime, but what mattered was that people like Lloyd and Cécile _did _exist; not all Britannians were cut of the same cloth, cruel and immutable, as he'd been led to believe for so long. And maybe, just _maybe_, this was enough to make the difference.

"It will be both of those, and so much more." L.L. cut into his musings, an unreadable look on his face. "Conceding the slightestpossibility that your assertion is correct, still, almost all of the pre-existing conditions are overwhelmingly _against_ you. You realize that, don't you?"

Suzaku swallowed. "Of course."

"And you're still willing to single-handedly begin a task that will most likely end in failure?"

It didn't have to be anything so complicated, he knew; he would have been more than happy to pilot the Lancelot for the sheer sake of piloting. But then such contentment would be a slap in the face of the little boy sitting sullenly by the side of the road, seven years ago – he didn't deserve it, and it certainly wouldn't absolve him of anything now, would it?

No, he'd decided then, long ago: the only way to make up for that, to even hope to _justify_ that, would be...

"If I don't try, then I've already failed," he said quietly.

(And, as always, those familiar, darker thoughts didn't take too long to whisper their maledictions: if he failed, then it would be _punishment_; otherwise, he could die trying, but in either case he would get exactly what he deserved, nothing more.)

"Your logic is so strange." L.L. was smiling at him again, and he had to wonder if he'd only imagined the man's grim demeanor just seconds ago. "In retrospect, it's a good thing I decided to save you."

"What?"

"Despite experiencing firsthand the worst of Britannia's unforgiving racism, you cling stubbornly to your optimism, even if it entails staying to take it. Enduring the status quo, in order to change it. I don't think I've ever met anyone quite like you." He chuckled. "In short, you amuse me. That's why I'm here."

That was _it_? "You can't be serious."

"Oh, but I am. Conversations like the one we just had have been in short supply for me lately. I wouldn't say it's worth getting shot again, but it's close."

Suzaku just stared at him for a long time, dumbfounded, before settling into a frown. This man was probably just trying to mess with his head, and he wouldn't let...well, he'd _succeeded_, but he wouldn't give him the satisfaction of knowing that. "So happy to have entertained you, then," he muttered crossly.

If anything, that blasted, patronizing smile only grew. "Is that an attempt at wit? I'd refrain from using it tomorrow, if I were you. Most of the instructors at Ashford are somewhat humorless."

It was nothing short of amazing, how quickly anger could be dissolved by sheer, mind-numbing surprise. "How did you – ?"

"While this has been a delightful encounter, Warrant Officer Kururugi, I'm afraid I have to take my leave now." L.L. stood up, languidly stretching his arms. "Give me your tie."

"What? No!" He reached up and clasped a hand protectively around the knot. "Why?"

"For God's sake, I'm not going to _keep _it." L.L. rolled his eyes. "Then: may I please have your tie? If you lend it to me I'll ignore the fact that you ruined my shirt."

Suzaku shook his head; making sense of such a ridiculously inane request almost felt like it should hurt. Still, the frayed threads hanging loosely from where there used to be buttons on the man's shirt stared him in the face, testament to his previous clumsiness. It looked like an expensive shirt too, he thought glumly as he reached up and loosened his tie.

"_Thank _you. Now that wasn't so hard, was it?" L.L. turned around as soon as he had the article in his hands, completely missing the death-glare sent his way. "I don't know if you've ever had any formal education in the past, but for high schools here class usually starts at 9 a.m. sharp. Taking into consideration travel time, traffic conditions, the fact that you'll need to register with admissions and claim your books..." He trailed off and looked briefly up at the ceiling, crunching numbers – for all of one-and-a-half seconds. "You'll want to leave here 7:30 at the latest." And then he broke into a smile. "I'll be expecting you in the lobby at seven, then."

"What – I – you – " Suzaku leapt to his feet and sputtered, finally remembering how to speak coherently on his fourth try: "You're coming back?"

"Well of course." L.L. blinked, as though he'd never even considered _not _doing so. "I already saved you from bleeding to death in an abandoned tunnel, and spared you further exhaustion in what seems to have been an already-eventful night. So really, seeing to it that you don't make a fool of yourself on your first day as a student is but a trifle. Do you even know how to get to Ashford?"

"I..." Headache intensifying by the second, Suzaku was only able to watch as L.L. calmly replaced the chair he'd borrowed, then proceeded to rearrange the items cluttering his desk _as though he owned them_. "I don't need your help," he finally groused. "Miss Cécile gave me the address and a map. I'll be perfectly – "

"Public transport will take you only as close as four blocks away from the main gate, assuming you know where to switch trains. Also, around half of the streets leading to and from that general area are off-limits to Elevens. No, you _don't _know how to get to Ashford." Seeming all too pleased with himself, L.L. finally moved away from his desk (and damn, but he had to admit it was so much neater now – he'd been hunting for that letter opener for weeks) and opened the door. He wound the necktie twice around the doorknob, letting the ends hang loosely, and then pointed to his handiwork. "Know what this means?"

"...No – "

"Good. That means no-one will suspect your bluff."

"Wait, _what_ – "

"Leave it there if you want to be assured of a good night's sleep tonight." A small but steadily-growing part of him was about ready to strangle this man for not letting him get a word in, but L.L. was frowning now, a questioning gaze focused on something over his shoulder. "Is that a cat on your windowsill?"

Damn him for actually looking, and damn him for forgetting that his window had _blinds_, because when Suzaku finally turned back around, somehow, L.L. was already gone.

* * *

That night, with the flag of Britannia draped across the wall at her back and its anthem resounding earnestly from the orchestra, Princess Cornelia li Britannia was sworn in as Viceroy of Area 11.

The official witnesses stood to her left, faces closed and spines rigid, at attention: General Andreas Darlton and her bespectacled personal knight, Guilford. On the other side sat her sister, Euphemia, who resembled her in a similar, albeit softer, grace and beauty: with her posture straight and delicate, manicured hands folded across her lap, she looked every bit as regal despite the cast around her leg, raised to level the seat of her wheelchair.

The audience was composed of only two distinct sets of the populace: nobles (none of a rank lower than lord; the higher his rank, the closer he sat to the stage) and pre-selected officers of the military. They listened with rapt attention as Cornelia finally took to the podium to deliver the customary speech. And when she declared her campaign to put a stop to the petty resistance movements and crush the terrorism in this Area once and for all, the grand room erupted into a fervent applause that matched her conviction, resonated with her fire.

The whole event was being broadcast live as it took place, over all the major local networks. But there were several individuals, those who would have been personally affected by this transfer of power, who missed it entirely. Among them: a prince on his flight back to Pendragon, a scientist cheerfully rejecting yet another proposal for a cockpit-ejection system ("_We've gone horribly over-budget, so there's simply no funding for this yet!"_) and a teenage girl who locked herself in her room, ignoring both her stepmother's shrill yammering and the maid politely knocking on her door.

A charming, elusive civilian smiled as he climbed into the back seat of a taxi, giving the driver the name of his hotel.

And in the building he'd just left, a tiny room near the very end of the first-floor hallway housed a young soldier packing his belongings, but his thoughts were currently miles and miles away.

* * *

"You need an alias."

The sky was a heavy, somber canvas of grey as the clouds hung low over the Tokyo Settlement. Suzaku tore his gaze away from the young children running around the park to regard his companion. "What?"

"You need an alias," L.L. merely repeated. He was almost hoping this was a joke, but the look on his face was dead serious. "Typical Britannian students may not be the brightest when it comes to the history of the Areas they live in, but even the dimmest bulb in the whole Area will recognize the name Kururugi."

He really didn't want to think about it (ever), but there wasn't much he could do to deny reality, that his father had been his country's leader, back when it still was one, when its people were free and this fact still mattered. "So?" he asked.

"So," L.L. replied in a long, drawn-out tone, as thought he were about to explain something very complicated to a small child. "The ostracism you would normally experience simply for being an Eleven will be magnified tenfold once your classmates learn you are the son of the last Prime Minister. Which is why..." The man paused for a brief moment, before concluding in the exact tone of voice he'd used twice before: "You need an alias."

He said it with such certainty as well, the soldier noticed, although he didn't know how he would have come to expect anything less: he'd woken up that morning thinking maybe last night had been an elaborate joke, only to chance upon L.L. sitting in the lobby, legs crossed with a newspaper spread open in front of him (_"Right on the dot. Impressive."_)

From then on the man had, as promised, accompanied him downtown, taking him through a shortcut to the station that strangely didn't show up on the map Cécile gave him. The train ride that followed was quite an interesting one, with the man pointing out landmarks and filling the down time with some colorful political commentary. Well-educated, he supposed, as he'd never met a Britannian who knew this much about Japan, before and after it became Area 11. Odd as he was – and this was a generous term, given so many things that they _still_ hadn't talked about – L.L. seemed the type to always know exactly what he was talking about.

Still...

"I don't want one." Suzaku shook his head stubbornly. "It would be like lying."

"It would be that exactly," L.L. mused. He crossed the street, not bothering to wait for the light, and Suzaku had no choice but to follow. "A technicality then: don't lie, but skirt the truth a little. Translate your name. Or invoke some other branch of your family tree – really, anything but _Kururugi_, that's just asking for trouble."

"But in the army I already – "

"Army." L.L. held out his left hand in front of him, making a fist. And then – "Ashford" – he repeated the action with his right hand, keeping them raised about a foot apart. "Mutually exclusive."

It took a couple of seconds for him to understand what that meant, but he eventually did; perhaps all this recent time spent with Lloyd had been good for something after all. The man had a point, though: even if he didn't like the idea, what were the chances another soldier was enrolled in the same school, let alone one who would recognize, or care about him?

Suzaku heaved a sigh. He couldn't believe he was actually considering this.

"Sumeragi," he muttered to his shoes.

L.L. didn't slow his pace, but regarded him with mild surprise. "You hail from the Houses of both Kururugi _and _Sumeragi?"

The word brought back vivid visions of red maples and _sakura _blossoms, of a self-proclaimed goddess with laughing green eyes, of a grave behind the main house that never wanted for fresh flowers. He shrugged.

"Fascinating." L.L. was still studying him, and making no attempt to be discreet about it. He fought the urge to squirm, instead tightening his grip on both the strings of the duffel bag and the handle of the suitcase containing everything he owned. The barracks that had housed him for the past three years had never been a home, but a part of him still wondered if he ought to feel more attachment to it than _this_. "An improvement, at least. The chances of anyone from Ashford making the connection to the Six Houses of Kyoto is slim, and even in that scenario you would merely be presumed the son of a collaborator. It will do."

He mulled over that last thought. Granted, he'd been out of contact with the rest of his family since he joined the military, but while the fact that the Six Houses of Kyoto were readily cooperating with Britannian authorities occasionally splashed front pages and graced news reports, he could never shake the feeling that there was something underhanded going on. It held little water, he knew, this gut feeling that was completely unfounded, but...

"You wouldn't happen to have a Christian name, would you?"

Suzaku frowned. "I'm not changing my first name!"

"I didn't think so," L.L. conceded with a slight laugh. He stopped walking altogether and stuffed his hands into his pockets, cocking his head to the side. "Here we are."

It was hard not to gape. Ashford Academy sat on a gated campus surprisingly nearer to the ghetto than he'd recently thought, but a single glance through the main entrance and they couldn't be further apart. Leading from where they stood on the sidewalk was a wide pathway cutting straight across the manicured front garden, itself peppered with benches and trees a precise distance apart. Halfway through the pathway branched into several smaller ones, and from here on to the first visible structure was decorated with arches sprawling overhead, glass and concrete painted white. There were already some students milling around, chattering in flawless Britannian: _'My father got it for me, real snakeskin,'_ and _'I need to borrow your Math notes,'_ and _'Isn't it odd that Prince Clovis wasn't even at the ceremonies last night?'_

Suzaku swallowed hard, grateful for his sunglasses. He didn't belong here. What had Lloyd and Cécile been thinking? Gods, was it too late to back out and defer his promotion?

(But that meant giving up the Lancelot, he remembered, and he didn't even want to consider _that_ possibility, not now. Not anymore.)

"Enjoy your first day, Mister Sumeragi." There was a glint of amusement in the man's gaze. "The administrative building is just a bit beyond the one you see there – chrome roof, impossible to miss. Admissions would be on the second floor, and they'll probably loan you a uniform for the day. Also, ask for a temporary locker so you won't have to lug those cumbersome things with you between classes."

He barely heard any of it. "You know a lot about this school," he murmured, more to himself.

But L.L. replied anyway. "Yes. In fact, I do." And he was about to ask how, but the man started speaking again before he could get the chance. "Well, then. This has been a wonderful morning, and I can hardly tear myself away. But I'm afraid I have no choice. You'll survive, won't you?"

"Where are you going?" Suzaku asked before he could stop himself. He immediately regretted the earnestness that leaked into his tone, but he couldn't deny that the man had been immensely helpful, if today's effortless commute and last night's undisturbed peace were anything to go by. These, and of course the fact that he'd _not _left him to die in Shinjuku – that counted too. He didn't want to become too dependent, but really, these past few days had been far from easy, and the next few promised to be more of the same; he'd be foolish to turn down all the help he could get, even for trifles like this.

"I have a flight to catch."

"You're leaving Area 11?"

"Hardly." L.L. checked his watch. "I'm leaving Tokyo to visit an old associate of mine."

"I see." Twice he'd dodged the question, so Suzaku decided to drop it altogether. "Um...have a safe trip, I guess."

"Oh, that definitely won't be a problem, as I'm sure you already know." L.L. laughed then, and he remembered the gunshot that left no bullet wound, and how he'd already spent so much time with this man but still knew practically nothing about him. How was that even possible? "I'll see you soon. I believe we still have much to discuss."

With that and a slight wave he was gone, lost in the sea of civilians flooding the sidewalks in this early, rush-hour Tokyo Settlement.

* * *

Kallen hated coming to school.

She hated that the alibi she'd adopted – of a sickly girl who incurred frequent absences to get medical treatment – forced her to act in a way so radically different from her real personality, it almost sickened her. She hated how she had to sit and smile through countless conversations on boys and fashion while desperately pushing worry after worry (that her comrades would be caught, imprisoned, killed) into the back of her mind. She hated how they patronized her here, simply because she went by Stadtfeld and said all the right things, her every nod and laugh scripted, artificial.

Most of all, she hated how _boring _it was, having to sit through things like Geography when just yesterday she had helped pull off a successful Knightmare heist. But perhaps this day was to be an exception to that, because it started with this:

"My name is Suzaku Sumeragi. It's nice to meet you all."

She followed him with her gaze as he walked to the empty desk at the very back of the room; there was no point in being discreet because everyone else in the classroom was looking at him as well. It took several raps on the table before the instructor finally reclaimed the attention of the class, and even then it was lacking.

_Eleven. _She heard the whispers traded throughout the duration of the lecture, from every corner of the room. And while she loathed the word and wanted to smash her fist against something every time she heard it (except that Kallen Stadtfeld wasn't one to do that; nor would she care, really), she understood the confusion, at least. Why did an Eleven enroll here, at a private Britannian academy, and in the middle of the school year no less? It was certainly an odd choice; even if he were an Honorary Britannian, some lines were just not meant to be crossed. Sumeragi – where had she heard that name before?

It got worse when he disappeared at the beginning of lunch period. Classmates, some people she genuinely liked, huddled in groups and didn't even bother to lower their voices. "Eleven scum." "Just a Number." "Who does he think he is?" Shirley, always a bundle of cheerfulness and good intentions, had started to follow him ("Come on guys, he can't be that bad!") but was stopped by Rivalz with a firm shake of his head.

Kallen sighed. Maybe it was about time to distance herself from all this negativity, and she excused herself as she stood up, bringing her lunch to the rooftop.

She had just climbed onto her perch atop the railing when her phone rang.

"Kallen?"

"_Finally_," she breathed, immensely grateful for the voice on the other end of the line. "I was so worried, damn it!" she scolded in Japanese. "Not a word from you all night!"

"Sorry about that," came the sheepish reply; she could imagine Ohgi rubbing the back of his neck from all the way here. "There was just too much heat after that stunt we pulled, so we had to lay low for awhile. How are you?"

"I'm fine, I'm fine," she said distractedly, balancing her lunchbox on top of her lap. "There wasn't too much of a fuss, just like I'd predicted. How's everyone else?"

"Doing well. We've managed to stash the Knightmares in that safehouse Minami's contact told us about, and we'll be staying here for the time being. It's hard to get around with all this cargo when the Knight-police are looking for us all over."

"I can imagine," she murmured, opening her lunchbox: cheese and lettuce on white bread, cut into four smaller pieces.

(Cakes, loaves, casseroles – her mother would always do it this way, long ago: one for her, one for Kallen, one for Naoto, one reserved just in case a guest dropped by. And this would almost always be Ohgi, politely refusing a grand total of _once _before Naoto would laugh and call him out on his bad acting, and they would all sit at the table and – )

She shoved those thoughts out of her mind. Glancing down at the grassy field behind the building, she saw the members of the football team running through a drill. Not sure if they could see her or not, she jumped down anyway, unwilling to take the risk.

"Oh, and some good news." She just remembered Ohgi was still on the phone. "Nagata and I will be meeting with a representative from the JLF tomorrow evening."

Kallen paused mid-stride. She almost dropped her lunch box entirely.

"You're kidding."

"Nothing's set in stone yet. But apparently they caught wind of what we did at the depot. They contacted us last night, and...well, to cut a long story short they may or may not want us to do a joint operation with them next weekend."

Her heart sped up just at the thought, and she felt restless. Short of freeing Japan entirely, this had been her brother's dream, to join forces with the only group large and organized enough to make _that_ a possibility. If this came to pass, it would be bittersweet: that she would be among those who would benefit from everything he worked for, and yet...

"...Which is why we need you to stay there for just a bit longer."

She frowned. "Why?"

"It just..." She could hear him shuffling in the background. "It seems too good to be true. The JLF, contacting _us_ – they said a former colonel would be leading the operation, and that if all goes well they might let one of us test a new Knightmare from Kyoto – "

"_That_ settles it then. I'm going."

"No," Ohgi insisted. "What if it's a trap? Kallen, you already got caught once. It's too dangerous for you to come out too soon."

A flash of anger surged through her blood. "_I _will be the one who decides what's too – !"

Kallen froze in her tracks as she turned the corner; there, with his hands braced on the railing and his feet dangling on the other side, the new Eleven student sat facing the courtyard below.

_Shit_.

"I have to go," she said, in Britannian this time, and quickly ended the call.

The boy didn't move to acknowledge her, or otherwise show any sign he even knew she was there. Either way, this was bad – just how long had he been sitting there? She mentally kicked herself for being so careless, but no-one ever came up to the rooftop here, at least not before today. It had never been a problem. But now...

Gritting her teeth, she pocketed her phone and approached him, forcing a smile into her voice.

"Hey there...Suzaku, wasn't it?" She mimicked the mis-accented, flat-voweled delivery he'd given in class, obviously pandering to Britannian tongues. "Kallen Stadtfeld," she offered when he turned to face her. "I'm in your class."

"Oh, hello," he replied warmly. She'd already known his eyes were green, but up close they were really quite striking, a rich shade of emerald that stood out keenly. "It's a pleasure."

She shook her head. "No, the pleasure's all mine." Small talk like this normally irritated her to no end, but she needed to know how much he'd heard. Then... "Your Britannian is impeccable."

"Thank you." And then he smiled. "So is your Japanese."

_Damn it_. He'd heard at least part of their conversation then...but only _her _side, she reminded herself, and she struggled to recall just what she'd said, and how much information he could have gleaned from that. If she remembered everything correctly, she realized with some relief, that wouldn't be very much at all.

Still, there was a question implied at the end of that, and it remained unanswered. "Ah, I...only know a few choice phrases. Our maid isn't all that bright, and it's often a lot easier to get through to her when I use her native language."

Was it sad that that wasn't even much of a lie? (But she didn't want to think about it.) If he was offended by that, he didn't show it, only giving a slight, almost imperceptible nod.

It was somewhat awkward, the spell of silence that followed. There were a few tense seconds in which she couldn't quite decide whether to leave or stay. She'd already gauged that he hadn't heard anything useful, really, so this shouldn't even have been a problem anymore. But there was something about him sitting here, so alone and seemingly cut off from the rest of the world, that gave her pause.

"So...did you transfer here from another school?" she ventured. Their teacher had been extremely vague about the arrangement, telling them just that this boy would be joining them in class for some indefinite period of time. Suzaku himself gave only his name and nothing more.

"Not really," he replied. "I was sort of home-schooled before this."

"I see." This revelation made slightly more sense, not that that was saying much at all. "Why the sudden change?" He blinked at her, and there was something like surprise (or panic?) that flitted briefly across his face, so she added quickly, "If you don't mind me asking."

Suzaku shook his head, smiling cordially once more. "No, it's fine. My...my father thought it was a good idea, I guess."

"Your father?"

"He used to tell me...since I never really grew up with too many kids my age...eventually, I'd have to learn. And that this was important, somehow."

"Hmmm." She leaned against the railing, facing away from him then. She supposed now would be a good time to share some wisdom from _her _father, comparing insights. But she truly had nothing to say. "Sound advice."

"I suppose so."

"You sound rather close to him," she mused.

Suzaku laughed at that, but it was strangely hollow, empty. Glancing in his direction, she was somewhat surprised to see all of the previous cheer suddenly gone from his features. "Not anymore. He's...he's gone now."

She felt _horrible_. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay." He swallowed. "That's just how it is."

Kallen stared at her feet, unable to ignore the stiff, almost strained quality in his voice even if she wanted to. Maybe she had been a tad too intrusive; the boy was clearly uncomfortable talking about this, and she didn't blame him at all.

She supposed she was just genuinely curious, then, because she'd never had a father to turn to, all her life. (And the man was still alive, too.)

She wondered what it was like, sometimes – she couldn't help that. She'd never really felt as though anything were missing; her mother and Naoto had given her plenty of love. But then the war happened, and sometimes she thought that if only _he'd_ helped them, if only _he'd _given more of a damn, then maybe it wouldn't have hurt so much.

"Do you miss him?" she found herself asking.

Suzaku brought his feet up and locked the heels of his shoes between concrete and railing, so he could hunch down and wrap his arms around his knees. The uniform seemed to be slightly too big for him, she noted as she took in the heavy, somber posture. It took him far too long to reply: "Sometimes."

Kallen looked at him thoughtfully. Part of her felt sorry for him, part of her wasn't sure why. She wondered what was worse, missing something that was gone, or not missing what was never there in the first place.

"Here." She opened her lunchbox again, took out a cut of her sandwich, and offered it to him. "Have some."

"Eh?" Suzaku blinked again, before shaking his head with a slight laugh. "I couldn't."

"You don't look like you brought anything, and classes go on for four more hours still," she explained. "You need to eat something. This is more than I can finish myself, anyway."

"Even so, I..." He averted his gaze, embarrassed. "It's all right. I'll be fine – "

"If you refuse again, I'm afraid I'll have to take it as an insult," she said demurely, adding a soft smile that she – well, Kallen _Stadtfeld_ at least – had used to sway opinion at this school many times before.

A question lingered in the back of her mind, though: would Kallen Stadtfeld be expected to come up here, to a place as secluded as this rooftop at this time, and care enough to speak at length with this Eleven? It seemed she wasn't invested heavily enough in this little charade to have a ready answer to that.

Suzaku looked painfully conflicted for a while, before accepting the item with a resigned, albeit grateful smile. "Thank you, Miss Stadtfeld."

"Kallen," she corrected. She took a bite out of her own portion and chewed daintily. "None of my other friends call me 'Miss Stadtfeld,' so neither should you."

He looked almost startled at that. "But...we..."

"Just met? It doesn't matter. We're in high school, and here, friends are defined by the people you eat with." She flashed him another smile, warmer this time.

No, she wouldn't mind being his friend; he was a lot like her, this Eleven, this (now) fatherless boy. Of course, the rumors would be scandalous if any of their other classmates even caught wind of her showing him kindness, but at least right now none of that mattered. And she could sense that he was well aware of this, but grateful for it anyway.

They talked about other things for the rest of the hour – her illness, _kendo_ (which she pretended to have never heard of before), Ashford's notorious school festivals. Throughout all this she wondered what the rest of the class was saying about him now, what they would _continue _to say about him behind his back – these, and how soon it would ever change.

But this was what she fought for, she reminded herself when they finally returned to class – using entirely different routes. One day Japan would be free, and all of this nonsense would stop. But until then, she would try to be nice to this boy whenever she could, if only to soften the cruelty they both knew he would have to face from here on.

* * *

There wasn't much of a difference between Nagoya and Tokyo anymore, L.L. thought as he stared out the tinted window of his cab. Less government buildings and more automotive plants did not change the fact that the major city's populace – at least, those who worked in this urban region and were _not _sidewalk vendors or the like – were all Britannian. It was more of the same: Britannian industries, Britannian street signs, Britannian commentary over the radio on Viceroy Cornelia's illustrious military career. What had been Atsuta Shrine seven years ago was converted into a duke's pet project: a vast Britannian war museum with life-sized dioramas extending into where the Treasure Hall should have been. Nobunaga was probably rolling in his grave.

He'd called this city home for seven months, not too long after Britannia invaded this country; he'd foolishly sought respite by leaving Tokyo, anticipating disappointment but gambling (hah) anyway. That was roughly four years ago, and a number of things had happened then.

He'd begun making these brief, monthly visits ever since he found out that –

"Here we are, sir," the driver informed him cheerfully. "University Hospital."

"Thank you," he nodded with a smile, glancing once at the fare displayed on the meter, then quickly at the man's face through the rearview mirror. The man was an Eleven, and so he took out a wad of bills, counted out the fare and added twenty per cent."Have a good day."

The hospital was a large, complicated system of multiple buildings, winding hallways and too many medical students rushing about in large groups. But he'd been here plenty of times and remembered exactly where he needed to go: a quick detour to the gift shop, a brisk walk across the open quadrangle to the renal unit, nine floors up and five doors from the elevator.

He was a bit less sure of himself, however, when he came upon the room and saw a very unfamiliar person inside.

After circling the floor once, just to be certain, he was forced to conclude that something was amiss. It took him a considerable amount of effort to reconcile this – sweet-talking, posing as a relative, forking over a bribe since he had no identification to show (yet another ordeal that would have been nonexistent if he'd still possessed his Geass). But that was when he learned that the patient he was looking for had been transferred to intensive care.

He was standing at her bedside now, dressed in scrubs he'd 'borrowed' from a nurse on lunch break. The carnations he'd been forced to leave with the receptionist, and so his hands were awkwardly empty as he stared at the mess of tubes and machines keeping the woman alive. Jaundice left her skin a sickly yellow, and there were other bruises and open sores all over her face and arms.

This was not right. This was a far cry from the strict, sharp-tongued woman who had only been waiting for a kidney transplant the last time he was here.

L.L. threw a quick glance at the hallway, making sure no one was watching, before he reached over and opened her right eye partway: bloodshot, seeped with yellow in the whites but still blue, as he remembered. He left that, moving his hand to the other side of her face – pausing (though he knew not what for) before pulling up her left eyelid.

There: the iris was a deep, angry red, almost like a pool of blood with the telltale sigil barely visible with the bright light overhead.

As expected, he thought grimly. _Geass runaway_, C.C. had called it long ago, and he'd railed at her then for not telling him about this beforehand. But even with all of his careful warnings, apparently, he had not done enough to change the outcome.

"I told you not to use it anymore," he murmured softly, replacing his hands onto the edge of the bed. "We discussed this so many times. You _knew _this would happen."

He received no reply; it wasn't as though he were expecting one, anyway.

"_This is how it's going to be," C.C. had drawled, lounging on his bed the night before he took her Code. "None of the Geass powers you grant will be exactly alike. But since you hate unpredictable things, take comfort in the fact that they will be similar, in certain ways."_

Cryptic as the advice had been, it turned out to be true. But because C.C. was insufferable like that, she gave him no more information once the pizza delivery boy arrived, so he had to learn this the hard way. The nature of the abilities, he learned, was one; all of C.C.'s contracts yielded Geass powers operating within the realm of the mind, including the power of the King. His, however...

(He reached over and opened her left eye again, and used the other hand to angle his cellphone so that the shimmery finish caught the light while still facing her; he didn't need to glance up to see the ethereal dome of red surrounding them because he already saw it _here: _that she had no reflection, only an imprint visible on the bedsheets.)

His, however, brought forth some entirely different 'gifts', so to speak.

When he'd met this woman, barely a week after first setting foot in this city, she was in a bit of a bind: a Britannian diplomat who had become separated from her colleagues and, in her effort to find them, either missed a turn or misread a street name, or perhaps both. Either way, she very soon wound up alone in one of the ghettoes, and as night began to fall the perils of being caught in such a place, at such a time when the wounds of conquest were open and blistering, came out.

She'd run blindly into an alley then, attempting to shake off her pursuers, when he pitched his offer: _"Your name is not Britannian," _he'd commented nonchalantly once he learned it. _"Someone in your family, years or decades before your time, either sold out or had no choice but to join hands with Britannia. Either way, this can be remedied. I can give you the chance to escape, but I see no point in doing so unless you resolve to change this, undo the mistakes of the past. That you were born a daughter of this Empire of avarice does not mean you have to die as one." _

(The words hit close to home as well, but she didn't need to know that.)

Her immediate reaction was indignant: she would never betray Britannia, she'd just begun to say. But the Elevens arrived and that was when she whirled around, clutched his arm with fear in her eyes and accepted.

L.L. had no idea what the outcome would have been, had he _not_ been there to save her. Perhaps the Elevens would have killed her, or perhaps not. Perhaps she might have survived that on her own, or perhaps someone else could have lent a hand. Regardless, that was all in the past; they'd forged a contract right then and there, and the looming disaster had been averted.

In hindsight, it probably wasn't worth it: renouncing her loyalty to Britannia (but it wasn't as though he stayed in Nagoya long enough to make sure she kept this, her end of the bargain) in exchange for a Geass that ate away at her body every time she used it.

Because there was always a weakness, there was always a price to pay. But instead of limitations on the gift itself, as C.C.'s contracts imposed, every Geass borne of a contract with him would turn out to be sacrificial. A pound of flesh, of blood, for defying the mandates of the gods, he thought grimly. Each Geass cast was, literally, a step closer to the grave.

He stepped back several paces, appraising the comatose patient with a heavy sigh. This woman was one of just _two _contractees left alive; now that her Geass had become permanently activated, very soon there would only be one.

(A conundrum: that Eleven boy he met in the tunnels at Shinjuku intrigued him greatly, but if he ever granted him Geass it would very likely kill him before long, rendering that a moot point. What, then?)

L.L. took one last look at the woman and bowed his head. "_Auf wiedersehen_," he bade her farewell in what should have been her native tongue, although he knew fully well that they would never see each other again.

* * *

"Aha! Look at all this space!"

Cécile glanced up from her clipboard just in time to see Lloyd twirling around, arms flung outward and laughing. If anything, their new headquarters could indeed be called just that – a sprawling expanse of currently empty space fed generously with fluorescent lighting overhead. This wasn't going to last very long, as A.S.E.E.C. personnel very soon spilled into the area, pushing trolleys with boxes and other such equipment inside.

They were lacking one member, though, and her thoughts turned to him when she heard the school bell from across the street. Lunch period must have just ended. "I hope he's all right," she mumbled softly.

But Lloyd heard her, and was at her side in an instant. "Hmmm? You'll have to qualify that statement a bit more, Miss Cécile."

"I was talking about Suzaku," she explained. "He doesn't seem...that is, his file doesn't mention..." She heaved a sigh. "I don't think he's done this before."

"By 'this' I assume you mean formally attending school?" He didn't wait for her to affirm before braking into a hearty laugh. "I wouldn't worry too much if I were you. It's not as if he actually needs the diploma to stay in A.S.E.E.C. Just – what, Math, Physics, several courses each? He'll be _here _much more often than _there_, I can assure you."

"Still...did it have to be _this _school?"

"Mmm, well, Warrant Officer Kururugi is a devicer first, student second. With our headquarters now located here, if he absolutely must spend time in school the ideal arrangement would involve minimal travel time between there and here. Even better!" The scientist stopped a man wheeling several boxes into the site, rifled through one and fished out a laptop before bothering to finish his train of thought: "Now that he'll be living in the university's dormitory, this doesn't only slash his potential commute, it practically _eliminates _it!"

Lloyd seemed so genuinely pleased with himself that Cécile didn't bother pointing out how Suzaku might have a life outside of home, school and work. Instead, she shook her head. "If only we didn't have to move in the first place, we'd have saved so much trouble."

"You don't like our new headquarters?" He pouted, a ridiculously childish expression on his face. "But it's so huge! And so well-lit!"

"It's so far from the base," she pointed out. "All the way out here, it's almost as if we're cut off from them entirely!"

"Hmmm." Lloyd tapped a finger against his chin, eyes dancing from one corner of the ceiling to another. "You say it like it's undesirable. Well...in most respects it probably is. But! Where you see a disadvantage, Miss Cécile, I see something else entirely."

"What would that be?" she asked warily.

"Opportunity!" He whirled around and addressed the nearby staff: "Congratulations, everyone! From this day forth we will be operating _miles _away from the rest of the Britannian military. Make of that what you will!"

With that, he tucked the laptop under his arm, adjusted his glasses and walked away, humming – was that a _nursery rhyme_?

* * *

It was almost six when the door finally opened. L.L. looked up once, blinked, and frowned. "Is that even comfortable?"

This time, Suzaku looked only slightly surprised to see him. "How did you...I thought you had a flight to catch?"

"That I did," he assented. "And now I'm back from the return flight. Again, is that even comfortable?"

"It's not so bad," the boy shrugged. He closed the door behind him, before crossing the room in several strides to deposit his bags beside the bed. This one was not that much larger than his quarters at the barracks, still quite cramped but with walls of a somewhat livelier color. "I have to wear it whenever I pilot. How did you find this room?"

"A lot less effort than it should have taken, to be honest," he smiled. "And how was school?"

Suzaku paused in the middle of unpacking, actually paused. He mulled over the question for a good, long moment, as though pondering too many possible answers. "It was..." He tilted his head. "Interesting."

"I'm sure it was." Instead of asking him to expound on that, however, L.L. merely stood up, smoothed out the creases in his pants, and started for the door. "So, straight to A.S.E.E.C. from school, and _then _straight here. Have you had dinner?"

He was rewarded with a blink. "What?"

"As I thought," he rolled his eyes. "Well then. Change into something less conspicuous. If you're going to be living here without access to a kitchen you may as well start familiarizing yourself with the establishments in this general area."

"What?" the soldier said, again, utterly perplexed.

He supposed it was only natural; after all, just hours ago he didn't know if he would even be coming back here at all. But on the flight back from Nagoya, staring out the window and fiddling with his empty wine glass, he figured out the resolution he'd sought.

And it was remarkably simple: the assumption, one he'd always accepted as truth and never bothered to question until today, was flawed. That he could offer Suzaku Geass and keep his company did not necessarily have to come hand-in-hand at all. And if anything, these past two days offered more proof to the contrary than otherwise.

C.C. always told him that the only reason she stayed with him was to make sure he kept his promise to her. That, and to observe how he made use of his Geass, but therein lay the difference then: he was not C.C. He was not desperate to pass on his Code. Whatever principles she chose to justify her actions did not apply to him.

(And if he was wrong about this, well – he would find that out for himself.)

"Regardless of whether or not you decide to starve yourself tonight," he said then, opening the door and stalling at the entrance, "_I_ will be eating. So, are you coming or not?"

Coming up with a reply seemed to take an enormous amount of effort, throughout which Suzaku just stood there, looking completely lost. Eventually, though, he sighed and headed towards the door, motioning for him to wait in the hallway. "Give me five minutes."

"_Two _minutes, Warrant Officer Kururugi," he said with a smile.

"...Wait."

He'd just turned around when he heard the call, and glanced over his shoulder. "Yes?"

L.L. expected the boy to say any number of things – ask where they were going, protest the narrow time frame, maybe even change his mind. But it turned out to be far simpler than any of those: "Call me Suzaku," was all he said, before closing the door.

* * *

Notes for Chapter 5:

- _On the chapter title_: Title is a not-so-subtle throwback to the title of Season 1, Stage 05, 'The Princess and the Witch.'

- Patrons of the kinkmeme may recall that I previously uploaded an 'L.L./Suzaku reunion' drabble there, back when this fic was still in its planning stages. After re-reading it through, though, I realized it was neither plausible (wouldn't fit with previous events) nor very realistic, so I switched it out for the 5,000+ word segment up there instead.

- In canon, Suzaku's enrollment to Ashford appears to be entirely due to Euphy's influence (references: Episodes 6, 20, and maybe some others), so it might seem farfetched that he'd do it without having met her. But then, he got promoted: "[Warrant Officers]...remain specialists, in contrast to commissioned officers, who are generalists" (from the U.S. Military Field Manual; yes, all my research is operating on the assumption that Britannia is a rough analog of the United States). To specialize in the Engineering Corps, let alone A.S.E.E.C., would require competency in a number of obvious things. We all know _why_ Cornelia promoted him, but logic dictates that if he wants to stay in A.S.E.E.C. without the nobles giving him a hard time, he has no excuse _not _to go back to school.

- One-way flight from Tokyo to Nagoya is roughly an hour...-ish. It's around the same travel time as with the _shinkansen_ (bullet train), but I can't recall if these exist in Geass-verse. If they do...let's just assume L.L. is too much of a diva to _not_ slap down the plastic for a first-class flight (except maybe when escorting clueless soldiers-turned-schoolboys around the Settlement.)

- ICU patient: _not_ an OC. Cookies to whoever can guess who she is.

I'm just happy to say that between Stage 04 and now, my personal record for story alerts has been officially shattered. To all you guys who added this on your faves/alerts list – I love you all.

**Arathe** – The domino effect you mentioned more or less sums up exactly what is going on here; controlling them and keeping track of which goes where is the (never-ending) challenge!

**iKraz** – Thank you very much!

**MithLuin –** I think, no matter which universe or reality they live in, Lelouch and Nunnally will always have a special bond. And who better than a professional gambler to bluff his way through an entire meeting with Clovis? (And no, you're not the only one who was amused at the thought of Euphy breaking her leg!)

**Altair718** – I do think Clovis and Nunnally becoming closer would have logically followed, and various little hints dropped in the anime seem to agree with what you said. And yes, Lloyd really means well; he just fails so hard at showing it (properly).

**Koneko-Hiruka –** I'm just glad you found it at all! ^_^ Thanks for reading!

**CGRD** – Thank you! Kallen will play a big role, definitely, and we'll always be seeing some Lloyd sprinkled here and there, now and then. (Also: not sure why you had to apologize, your English was flawless!)

**Blaid–** I'm going to see how long/extensively I can work this narrative without including OCs, but I appreciate the offer!

**Persephone1** – Honestly, though, with that little stunt of hers, Euphy was just asking for it. Suzaku/Lelouch interaction = this entire chapter, almost. Hope you liked it!

**A non a miss –** Thanks! ^_^ I'm so glad to hear that!

**Seriyuu** – There will be some things Nunnally knows about L.L., but she isn't privy to just _any_ information, as I guess you can imagine. She definitely doesn't have a Geass, though, that's for sure! XD

**nachan –** I hope you like being surprised, then ^_^. Thanks for reading!

**what the gaaah** – I'm happy you stumbled upon it in the first place then! Can't promise fast updates (depends on school, etc.) But I _can _guarantee this will be a very long fic!

**Firehedgehog –** 'This Geass – I do solemnly accept!'

**Jenniyah –** Thank you! Will be revisiting this event in the future (though, probably not all at once) =).

**Adele365 –** Nunnally is coming soon; hope you enjoyed the Suzaku/L.L. reunion here. School is _technically _out, but since I'm a grad student I still do research during the summer. If anything, I'm actually busier now because I'm teaching a night class as well, but I'll try my best to keep the updates coming!

**CheshireMisfit –** Oh wow, I'm honored! Thank you for your kind review =).

**slivershell –** I take it one day at a time, I suppose (target: Master's degree by this time next year! Woot!) You're entirely right, L.L. was never a prince in this universe and has no blood ties to the Royal Family. His ties to the military will be a bit tricky to explain without spoiling three or four future chapters, so let me get back to you on that ^_^. Thanks for reading!

**Adiane –** I'm glad you think so! For me, especially in this case where the main characters just meet within the narrative, there can't be any sex without the necessary build-up first. It does sadden me that Suzaku is so hated by the majority, but I've chanced upon quite a number of people like us who do appreciate his character, so I guess that makes it a bit better. Interesting take on Euphy's role in the boys' (canon) relationship; while I do believe it was quite clear that Euphy was in love with Suzaku, when it comes to the question of Suzaku loving Euphy the relevant dialogue was a bit vague, so really nothing's set in stone. Really can't say much about the relationship those two will have here without spoiling so much, but given that this is a LuluSuzu by definition I'm guessing you won't be disappointed in that regard ^_^.

**MOYva –** Thank you for reading! I'm also glad you think everyone's in character, especially Lelouch who I'm never sure I have pegged down just right. The romance will take a while in coming, but I'll introduce it slowly; I hope it'll be to your liking!

So...this chapter is late, basically. (There goes my 'one-chapter-a-month' target, argh.) School-wise, May was ridiculous, with several conferences and a lot of 6-hour experiments. My adviser has me working on two major projects now, and those, coupled with teaching, have been eating up most of my free time. But I do manage to steal some writing-time here and there (otherwise, 3-3-3 would have gone down in flames a month ago), so it's not that bad. Still, I apologize for the long wait and sincerely hope *crosses fingers* that this was worth it.

Next chapter: Nunnally makes her (grand?) entrance. Also, no, I'm not writing about L.L. and Suzaku's dinner, sorry ^_^.

Anyway. It's almost 2 a.m. as of me typing this, and I should probably sleep soon, so I'll cut this short for now. Thanks so much for reading, and all comments/feedback/suggestions will be very much appreciated!


	6. Stage 06: Sanctuary

Disclaimer: _Code Geass_ – with its characters, settings, and all other borrowed elements here – is the sole property of its creators. I do this purely for my own entertainment, and (hopefully) that of my readers as well.

Opening lines of this chapter are taken from _Bent, _by Matchbox 20.

Warnings for this chapter: For this one? Just language. Everything else shouldn't be a problem.

Enjoy!

* * *

It was surprisingly easy to settle into a comfortable, albeit unwritten routine over the next several days. They could all as well have been identical: awakening after rush hour, brewing just enough black coffee to wash down the lies and bullshit on the morning news, lunch and amusement at the gambling den, then dinner with Suzaku – sunset, sunrise; rinse, repeat.

The last of these was arguably the highlight of each day, which was a good thing in his mind since his recent line of opponents had been dull at best and pathetic at worst, stripping his afternoons at the gambling den of their usual thrill. It shouldn't have been so simple, getting this much money; either he was getting better at his game – a definite possibility, seeing as how he did little else nowadays – or he had already engaged the best players in the Settlement, scaring them all away. Pity.

At least Suzaku could provide some entertainment.

That was an interesting thought as well. The boy was neither over-eager about nor viciously opposed to their recent, nightly appointments, going along with him simply as though it required less effort _not _to raise any objections. L.L. was always the one to initiate them, though, arriving promptly at seven and knocking twice on the door ("Dinner?") to receive a muffled "Okay," and Suzaku would appear within minutes and they would be on their way.

And a part of him thought that _this _shouldn't have been so simple either. Suzaku carried a decent conversation on whatever whimsical topic he'd raise over the table, unapologetically curious if he wasn't familiar with it, animated if he was, but always genuine, _raw. _That the boy was so much at ease around him so soon left L.L. a bit bewildered, if truth be told. He recalled giving C.C. the third degree as soon as it was convenient, and this was after he'd _accepted _her contract.

But then – _"You don't trust people easily, do you?"_ the soldier had asked him at Shinjuku, mere minutes after they first met. Perhaps he was the exact opposite then, seeing as how he had yet to pester him for his real name or a clearer explanation of his immortality (again: infuriating as she was, he'd gotten that out of C.C. within twenty-four hours). But such a philosophy was a foolish one, and surely the son of a politician, a soldier who had been shot by his own allies, would know that by now. It didn't make sense, no matter which way he looked at it.

L.L. shook his head. He really was something else entirely, this peculiar boy who was didn't care much for caviar and truffles, who insisted on splitting the bill even though they both knew L.L. had much more money than he did. He scoffed at the thought; he didn't doubt that if left to his own devices, Suzaku would just probably choose to live on ramen and things that came in cans, so maybe this wasn't saying all that much.

The routine was finally broken on Friday: L.L. chanced upon the door slightly ajar, which, from the other end of the hallway, seemed almost like an invitation. Upon closer inspection, however, he saw dirty scuffs on the wood near the floor, the knob protruding at an awkward angle and the door jamb a mess of splinters and warped brass.

He really ought to have knocked first.

Because when he entered the room, the sight that greeted him was this: the desk was smashed, chairs wrecked, closet ransacked with its contents spilled across the room, ruined by spray paint and scissors. The potted plant that had been sitting in the corner was knocked over, spilling soil all over the floor. And...

Suzaku didn't even turn to face him, remaining crouched down as he labored to scrub some of the ugly graffiti (_"Stay in your fucking ghetto!"_ this particular one read) off his wall.

"You're early," was all he said, in a surprisingly chipper voice.

He couldn't tear his eyes away from the mess if he wanted to; it seemed not a single square inch of the room had been spared. "What happened here?" he asked in a low voice.

"I'm not too sure myself. I come back from work and, well...it looks like this." Suzaku finally stood up, gesturing vaguely around him with an outstretched arm and a hollow laugh. "I guess this is how they welcome you to the dorm."

L.L. didn't realize that he had his hands balled into tight fists until he actually felt the pain. "Don't be daft."

"Trust me, I'm not." He glanced up sharply at that. And for a brief moment he could have sworn he saw glimpses of something far more harrowing in the boy's eyes, but in less than a second the latter had turned away. "Anyway, I don't think I can join you for dinner today. Something tells me the longer I leave those up..." He nodded towards the rainbow of racial slurs all over his walls, "the harder it'll be to get them off."

"You're going to _stay_ here?" L.L. very nearly yelled, the rising of his voice matching his incredulity. It had not taken two seconds to figure out that Suzaku didn't want to talk about any of this, and he could force himself to respect that. But this was just senseless: "Are you insane? What if they come for you?"

"They don't know I'm back yet." The soldier dipped the cloth into a bucket of soap and murky water, and when he wrung it out it bled blue.

"And how – ?"

"They're watching from the courtyard."

L.L. blinked, surprised at this, before fixing the boy with a critical eye. He'd chanced upon him at the very corner of the room, a spot sunlight didn't even reach directly, and even now he kept his head low, a guarded hunch in his shoulders. He'd assumed it was just because of the clutter, but now that he thought of it he couldn't really imagine why Suzaku would leave the more explicit vandals for later (scrawled insults about his mother, about his – ) Was he avoiding the window?

Violet eyes narrowed as he marched to his destination. He would have thought that Britannia's youth, especially those who lived away from the homeland, should be slightly more open-minded than this – failing that, to at least show a bit more _maturity_, but perhaps both were empty hopes. There were always exceptions, a voice in the back of his head reminded him, and he knew some of them. But that didn't change the fact that they were a pitiful minority, vastly outnumbered by these cretins he was staring at now.

"_Get down!"_

So intensely had he been brooding that he only really _saw_ the boys once the soldier's voice snapped him out of it – were there four, or five of them? He couldn't tell, because he'd only been standing at the window for about two seconds before he saw the brick, and then all of a sudden the world was _tilting._

And he had only a moment to wonder why on earth Suzaku was tackling him to the floor, before his ears were filled with the awful sound of shattering glass.

* * *

**.**

_If I couldn't sleep, could you sleep?_

_Could you paint me better off?_

_Could you sympathize with my needs?_

_I know you think I need a lot_

_I started out clean but I'm jaded_

_Just phoning it in, just breaking the skin_

**.**

**Bird's-Eye View**

Stage 06

**. : Sanctuary : .**

The idea of home was an ancient one – shelter, reprieve, a place to which one could retreat at the end of the day, to safety and warmth. There should have been a sense of contentment there as well, and most essentially, of _peace_.

So it frustrated her that every time she was at home, not a minute seemed to pass without her fighting down the urge to hit someone.

"You weren't home for dinner last night." Her stepmother's voice cut through the silence just as she'd gotten a hold of the railing. "Where were you?"

"None of your business," Kallen muttered under her breath. Her footsteps were loud stomps to drown out her voice further as she ascended the grand staircase. She hadn't been doing anything questionable at all – far from it, she'd stayed a bit longer after school because the Student Council had thrown her a little welcoming party. It was a silly rule that all students at Ashford needed to be part of a club; still, she was only a 'special member' due to her illness. And yet she saw no reason to come clean with this, because she knew it would only lead to _more_ questions, and that once she got roped into these back-and-forths with her stepmother things would never end well.

"It's not as if _I_ would care either way." That maddening woman was still speaking, and Kallen gritted her teeth. There were still just too many steps between here and her bedroom. "But while you're living in this house you're still my responsibility...infuriating as that might be," she finished with contempt.

"Well you don't have to worry about me," she said coldly, finally reaching the top of the stairs. Just a few more seconds of this torture, and –

"Oh believe me, I _don't_." The tittering laughter almost hurt her ears. "But if he asks about you, and I don't know what to say, well. We can't have that now, can we?"

And this time Kallen was the one who wanted to laugh, laugh loud and long at such an absurd thought. But it hurt, and so she just yelled, "He _won't_," marched into her room, and slammed the door behind her for good measure.

She wasted no time kicking off her shoes, roughly yanking off her necktie as she did so. She padded across the carpet to her bathroom, depositing her books and school bag onto the floor along the way. There, she grabbed the first towel she could get her hands on, ran it briefly under the tap, and then rubbed it across her hair, rubbing furiously until it was free to bounce back into unruly waves and spikes. _Enough._

Kallen glanced up at the mirror, relieved when she finally looked like herself again. This silly charade wasn't meant to go on for so long. Ashford was tolerable, but more than that she loathed having to come home to _this_. She hated it here, this cold mansion that, despite its size, still managed to see both her and her stepmother in the same damned room far too often. She hated the portraits of her father hanging in the hallway, the only hint of his presence she would ever get deconstructed in oil and canvas, a mockery. And then...

A series of soft, timid knocks cut through her brooding. "Mistress?"

Kallen sighed. "Go away." (And then there was _her._)

Her visitor merely tried again, seeming not to have heard her. "This came in for you this afternoon," the muffled voice continued. "I didn't open it yet, in case you might have wanted to do it yourself."

"I didn't order any – "

Wait.

She rushed to the door, all that time wondering if it could be – if this was what she _thought_ it was, and pulled it open. There, the maid stood with a meek smile and meeker eyes, holding out the package as soon as their eyes met. "Here you go."

Kallen took the item from her without a word. The envelope was thick and heavy, the publisher's address by now a familiar one. It was...

"You seem fond of those magazines." The maid tilted her head ever so slightly, and her eyes shone. "Are they really very good?"

She shut the door in the woman's face before she lost her nerve. Leaning against the wooden frame, she couldn't help the tremor in her voice as she ground out quietly (again): "Go away."

Eventually, the woman took the hint and did as she was told.

Kallen waited a few more seconds, heart pounding, before she tore open the package. The magazine's cover gleamed; its colors were too bright, and the surface smelled strongly of gloss. She tossed it aside, not caring for its articles on things like fashion tips and celebrity gossip (one headline in bright pink promised a full six-page article detailing how Princess Euphemia had broken her leg). Instead, she turned her attention to the envelope, flipping it over and over in her hands. She reached for her small purse-knife, bared the blade, and began to cut.

It was a tricky thing, trying to separate the correct layers of reinforced brown paper, one painstaking nudge at a time. But this wasn't her first time doing this, and when she finally came to a section near the center that afforded little resistance, this only spurred her on even further.

Around twenty minutes later she had the front of the envelope pared half-open, and was holding in her hands the single sheet of white paper that had been tucked inside. Never before had Ohgi's messy handwriting filled her with inexplicable relief, especially since there were only three lines in the middle of the page: an address, a time, and a date – eight days from now.

Kallen folded the paper and pressed it to her chest as she leaned against the door. She didn't even try to fight the smile that was bursting from within. Eight more days – at least now, she had something to look forward to. And she could withstand this little hell on earth until then.

* * *

"That was reckless, stupid, and most of all extremely unnecessary."

L.L.'s voice – and the agitation it held – floated effortlessly above the drone of engines, wind, and chattering passersby. "Uh...you're welcome? I think?"

"In what universe can it even be _remotely_ implied that I was thanking you?"

Suzaku heaved a sigh, resisting a sudden, childish urge to roll his eyes. "I don't see why it's such a big deal."

L.L. stared at him as though he'd gone mad. "Hours in the E.R. _Twenty-three _stitches. I believe these all beg to differ."

He wasn't quite sure how to argue with that. He'd acted on sheer instinct, really, pushing the other man clear of the brick's path as it sailed through the window. It missed them both by a mile, but some of the rebounding glass nicked his face and the backs of his hands, prompting stitches and bandages and all this trouble he could have avoided, _would _have avoided, had his companion not completely overreacted this way. It was rather silly.

Then again, L.L. reminded him the first chance he got, it was entirely his fault for getting in the way, that it didn't matter even if _he _had gotten a brick to the brain because it would have _healed_. It would have been interesting to actually see that, Suzaku realized belatedly, but who even thought of details like that in such a situation?

"I'll pay you back," he promised earnestly, remembering that he was in the middle of a conversation.

The brooding look in those violet eyes just intensified. "It's not about the money."

"Then what is it?" Suzaku stopped walking altogether, spreading his hands in an exasperated gesture. "Why are you so upset with me?"

L.L. slowed to a halt, and his eyes were set on the pavement in a determined glare. Eventually he sighed, glancing up and addressing a nearby telephone booth: "Not with you. Idiotic as that stunt was, not with you."

He had a vague idea of what that meant, but he wasn't entirely sure. "It doesn't matter," he said instead, choosing to stare at the street himself. Around them, traffic flowed, marquees flashed, pedestrians sidestepped wordlessly, as though on auto-pilot. This was the Settlement winding down for the night, a part of him noted idly, and here they were smack in the middle of it, barely even disturbing its rhythm.

Although L.L. had calmed down somewhat, the irritation was still thick in his voice when he spoke again. "They ought to be expelled."

Ah, so he was right after all. Suzaku smiled. On one hand he was grateful that L.L. seemed to be taking his side in this whole matter; if anything, it made him feel slightly less miserable about it, and pared away some of the dread he harbored towards the looming, daunting task of undoing all the damage. And yet, on the other hand, he wondered why the man even cared at all. His own strangeness notwithstanding, the man's company had been almost constant since he'd moved to his dorm, and while it wasn't exactly _unwelcome_ (and this fact, as well, he had to resolve with himself soon), it still puzzled him.

L.L. had called him 'intriguing', but was that really all there was to this?

"Forget about them. That's just how it is."

"Don't tell me you're not going to report this."

Not a single fiber of his being ever expected L.L. would just nod and agree, so this reaction wasn't surprising in the least. "I don't know any of them," Suzaku reasoned, kicking a pebbly idly as they resumed walking once more. "And even if I did, and if by some miracle the disciplinary committee sides with me and decides to punish them...then what? They'd want revenge, they'd come back, and it just gets worse and worse."

(Of course, there was _another_ reason he was just going to let this slide, but that wasn't for L.L. to know, not yet – with any luck, not ever.)

"You're very good at rationalizing all of this," L.L. commented with an odd smile, "aren't you?"

He shrugged.

"Regardless, once you clean up that mess you might want to invest in a better lock. Or several." They rounded the corner and Suzaku realized he recognized this area; Ashford, A.S.E.E.C., and his dorm would be on the next street already. "Deadbolts work best."

"I'll keep that in mind." He honestly doubted they would try it again, though. And even if they did, well...it would still be much worse in the barracks, for so many reasons. Maybe this was the lesser evil? "I need to get the door fixed anyway." Not that there was any hurry to do _this_ either; he couldn't think of one thing that was even valuable in that room, let alone priceless. Still, he might as well put the miniscule raise he'd gotten to some good use.

The light changed, and they crossed the road. After passing a few shops and fixtures he was already familiar with, they came upon the furthest edge of the iron and white concrete fence enclosing Ashford Academy. In the distance, on the other side of this narrow, one-way street to their left, he could make out where the university proper began.

"On an entirely unrelated note..." L.L.'s gaze was just thoughtful now, no longer angry, and for some reason this made him feel better (but why?) "It's rather late, but would you still like to have dinner?"

Suzaku blinked. Dinner – he'd completely forgotten about that. "Now?" he asked dubiously. He didn't know what time it was exactly, but he didn't need to; he merely looked back at the establishments they'd passed, all of which were shuttered and dim. "I think most restaurants would be closed by now."

"A perfectly valid observation, but it's not the answer to my question." L.L. was still smiling, but there was a calculating look in his eyes. "You don't have a curfew or anything horrid like that, do you?"

"No, but..." He glanced around. Ashford's main gate was long behind them, and they'd already passed the entrance to the university as well, but his companion showed no signs of slowing down. "Hey, where...where are we going?"

"How hungry are you?" was the response he got. "You don't look to be starving to death. I trust you can wait for another thirty minutes or so?"

Suzaku had no idea what that had to do with anything, or where this man was taking him – he'd never really explored this area, west of Ashford. Still, weighing his options he realized he didn't mind any potential, extra time away from his dorm at all, and so decided to follow along with a curious air.

The walk didn't last for very long. They entered a park, the same one he remembered from his first day as a student, but took the other path when the trail branched out near the fountain at the center. When they emerged from the northern exit, the street across was even narrower, but the buildings on the other side much taller.

L.L. finally stopped in front of a particularly well-lit, thirty-odd-storey structure, motioning for him to enter. He obliged, pushing against the glass with his forearms...but then he caught sight of an elaborate chandelier, a uniformed concierge sitting at a tall counter with several clocks on the wall behind him, and paused mid-step. "This doesn't look like – "

"Revolving door! _Move!_"

Suzaku snapped out his musing to see that he'd trapped the man behind him. "Right! Sorry."

L.L. nodded cordially at the man as they entered, and the latter responded with a smile. "Late night tonight?"

"Something like that. I'm afraid I completely lost track of the time."

The concierge chuckled. "I guess you'll have to take back what you said last week, eh?"

L.L. smiled wryly. "Perhaps I will."

Suzaku kept silent throughout the entire exchange, alternately watching the two men and taking in his surroundings. Tessellations peppered the carpet beneath their feet in blue and green, contrasting the black leather of the furniture in the lounge. There were several tables lining the far wall, offering discarded remnants of today's paper, and a wide-screen plasma TV loomed over them all from its mount on the wall, displaying the antics of a late-night comedian. There were transparent dispensers on the counter next to a stack of paper cups, holding water with lemon slices – was this a hotel?

"Suzaku." The boy blinked at the sound of his name. Cursing himself for getting so easily distracted, he jogged quickly to where L.L. was already waiting in front of the elevators, avoiding the concierge's eyes.

He didn't speak until the car began its ascent. "So what are we doing here?"

"Going up," came the deadpan reply.

The boy decided he wasn't going to give him the satisfaction. "I thought you said we were going to get dinner."

"We are." L.L. was watching the numbers climbing on the display keenly. "This is where I live."

Suzaku had no idea what to say to that.

They got off on the twenty-second floor. The silence in the corridor here was heavy, as though anticipating something, as they walked. This sheer stillness, emptiness always carried the promise of something foreboding to him, and he felt himself tensing up despite all his attempts not to. His eyes scanned the hallway furtively, seeking out a bellboy, another guest, _anyone_. Maybe this was a mistake.

If L.L. noticed anything off about him, he didn't comment on it; he simply stopped in front of the door to the corner suite, running an unmarked card through the slot above the doorknob. "Oh, shoes at the door, if you don't mind?" he said as a cheerful beep welcomed them inside.

He didn't need to be told, stalling to remove his boots at the doorway two steps in. L.L. merely slipped out of his own loafers and stepped into a pair of slippers that had been waiting there, perfectly parallel to the wall. The suite lit up as he sauntered inside.

Suzaku barely heard the door click shut behind him. The foyer may as well have been a short hallway by itself; he found himself flanked by a mirror and several paintings as he entered the room, and dimmed strip lighting lent a soft wash to the walls. He passed a closed door – to the bedroom, maybe? – and the kitchen on his right, finding himself in an open-concept living and dining room done in mahogany, and velvet, and rosewood polished a shimmering black. Clear glass windows lined two of the walls from floor to ceiling, affording a spectacular view of the Settlement in its lit-up, nighttime glory.

"Wow," he breathed, anxiety quickly dissolving. He reached out a hand to touch the glass, and had his own surprise mirrored back at him as it turned opaque. Tapping the window again treated him to the sight of the city once more. "I didn't know you lived so close by," wasn't exactly what he wanted to say, but he figured it was more polite than asking straight-out how much it cost to live here.

"I don't think you ever asked." L.L.'s voice was somewhat muffled from having his head poked into the pantry. He drew back with a thoughtful frown. "I'm afraid our options are rather limited by time constraints. Do you like Italian?"

"Sure," Suzaku shrugged, not really caring either way. "Look, if it's too much trouble, you don't have to – "

"Nonsense." The man withdrew several items before shutting the door. "No matter how short-sighted and foolhardy, you deliberately threw yourself into peril for my sake. Feeding you is the least I can do."

He smiled when he realized that was about as close to a 'thank you' as he was ever going to get. (And at the same time, he fought to ignore the voice at the back of his mind, reminding him that that wasn't the only reason he – )

Suzaku shook his head, stepping away from the window. The third wall was practically one enormous bookshelf, overflowing with tomes and pamphlets and everything in between, arranged meticulously by author. He recognized a few of the names – poets, philosophers, surprisingly not all of which were Britannian. The urge to pick one at random and just leaf through it was strong, but he kept his hands stubbornly at his sides.

"Are you an avid reader?"

"Not really," he admitted. He imagined he could have been, but there was just never enough _time_, for many, many things. Retracing his steps, he padded across the floor and stopped halfway, where L.L. was currently occupied. The coldness of tile seeped through his socks as he stepped into the kitchen. "You're cooking?" he blinked.

"Not as of this moment, but I will be very soon." L.L. eyed him curiously. "What were you expecting?"

He didn't answer that. Honestly, when the man said 'Italian' he thought he'd meant ordering pizza or something to that effect, certainly not _this_. "You don't have to – "

"Hmm, we've had this conversation. Moving along." L.L. rummaged through the cabinet under the sink, eventually surfacing with a saucepan. "Besides, I am hungry. Refuse my hospitality if you absolutely must, but I will still be eating."

"I see." Suzaku conceded the discussion with a laugh. The kitchen could well have been an entirely different room by itself, with chrome and black marble countertops illuminated by hanging halogen lamps that seemed to peer curiously over their owner. An array of knives sat patiently in a wooden receptacle near the sink, blades hidden – on the other side, a spice rack with all its little bottles labeled neatly by hand. "So what are we making?"

L.L. gave him an unreadable look as he poured olive oil into the pan. "_We _are not making anything. _You_ are going to sit down and rest until the food is ready. Preferably not in my kitchen."

"Oh, come on. I want to help!" Suzaku stopped in front of the counter, where there were already several cloves of garlic waiting atop a cutting board. "How do you want these?"

"Chopped." L.L. seemed distracted while he searched the drawers. "Hold on, let me just find the..."

But Suzaku had already whipped a knife from its place, squashing a clove with the flat of the blade and his fist, so he could peel it easily. He only looked up from his program of peeling and whacking when he'd already finished, meeting the other man's gaze. "...What?" he asked, beginning to chop.

"Nothing." He worked quickly, so it wasn't long before he had the garlic in tiny bits, his only reply the frantic rhythm of the knife as metal met wood. It might have gone a bit more easily though, he had to admit, had L.L. not been watching him the whole time. "You're not actually half-bad with that. Do they teach you how to handle knives in the army?"

_Learned when I was ten _bubbled up from his thoughts before he'd even fully processed the question, and he bit his lip as he forced it back down. "All done!" he announced cheerfully then, presenting his handiwork. "What's next?"

L.L. gave him a strange look, but thankfully dropped it. Tearing the plastic off a box of cherry tomatoes, he dumped about half of its contents onto the board before placing it back into the fridge. "Cut these into halves for me, please?"

"Sure thing." Suzaku was only happy to oblige, breezing through his task with determination as well as a hint of whimsy. He could no longer remember the last time he handled food like this; whenever that was, the memory was now lost among too many years of scarfing down whatever was being served at the mess hall, among other things.

L.L. had a large pot of water set to boil in the meantime, and it was soon joined by salt and oil, and a packet of angelhair. "This should only be a few more minutes."

"It's okay," he replied, adding the tomatoes to the pan when he was prompted to do so. "I'm in no hurry."

"That's fortunate," L.L. commented with a smile. He'd poured a cup of Chardonnay from a half-empty bottle, and was looking at the clock when he added it to the saucepan, turning up the heat. With the garlic, it now smelled positively divine. "Far too often people rush through their lives, only to wonder at the end where it has all gone. Despair – it's a far too common tragedy."

He felt as though he should say something then, but he wasn't even sure where _that_ had come from, let alone what the man expected him to say. He simply ran the knife and cutting board under the tap, wondering how, barely a week ago he'd met this man at Shinjuku (and watched him die, he wouldn't let himself forget). Now he was standing in his hotel room, waiting for pasta to cook. How had that come about?

They ate in front of the TV, with tea – hot for L.L., which he found rather odd – and from plates stamped with the hotel's name in tiny print on the underside. _"...still have no promising leads regarding the murders of the Royal Guard at Shinjuku. Margrave Jeremiah Gottwald, who was initially in charge of the investigation, has since been replaced by Sir Gilbert G.P. Guilford, who earlier this morning gave a press conference regarding this matter. The aim was to diffuse the rising tensions of the Britannian public, especially in light of the upcoming Annual Summit of the Sakuradite-Producing Countries in a week's time, where leaders and dignitaries of various – "_

"You can just tell they aren't even trying anymore," L.L. commented over his teacup. "It's already been – what – eight days? The killer could have easily left the country by now."

"Well..." Suzaku frowned thoughtfully at that, recalling how vicious Jeremiah and his men had been to him when he was still their primary suspect. "Regardless, I'm pretty sure they're doing their best to catch him."

"Regardless," L.L. conceded with a small smile. He took a long, languid sip. "I still think he's already had too much of a headstart by now. If he plays his cards right, he'll always be several steps ahead. The Knight-police don't stand a chance."

Suzaku mulled over this through a mouthful of pasta – he rather enjoyed its fresh, clean flavor. "But what if he makes a mistake? They'll just catch him then," he said as soon as he could swallow. "He's bound to slip up sometime."

"You really think so?" At his assent, L.L.'s eyes glittered with amusement. "That's interesting. I suppose we'll just have to wait and see."

Their conversation after that was trivial but desultory – school that day, odd perks of this hotel (fresh towels all day, everyday, whether he dropped them or not), old Japanese landmarks and festivals before the occupation began. L.L. played chess professionally, he learned as they washed the dishes. He wondered aloud if the money one could get from that was enough to live on, but he sidestepped asking about the hotel. L.L. himself merely smiled and said it was comfortable; after all, the 'income' was commensurate with skill.

He had to be very good to afford all this. And he was; L.L. took him to a small table with the chessboard etched into the wood, pieces in crystal and black marble, and showed him what he had. Suzaku lasted four moves. (Then twelve. Then twenty-one.)

It was almost a quarter to midnight when he next looked at a clock, and he cursed himself silently for losing track of time; he had probably overstayed his welcome. "Thanks a lot for having me over," he said just as he was about to leave. "That was a lot of fun."

"Likewise," came the reply. L.L. was leaning against the door frame. "We should do that again sometime, yes?"

"That's your call."

"Then, anytime. You know where to go."

There was something unsettling about the silence that followed. They seemed to linger at the doorway for far too long.

"Out of curiosity..." L.L. looked off to the side, as though appraising one of the paintings in the foyer. "Where will you be staying tonight?"

Suzaku shrugged. He wasn't keen on the thought of staying up all night to repair the damage, but on the other hand the thought of sleeping with all those profanities looming over him wasn't all that appealing either. "I haven't really thought about it yet," he admitted.

"I see. I only mention it because...well, it _is _rather late." The man's gaze appeared to have landed on just about everything else by now, but when their eyes finally met it seemed to pierce right through him. "If you want..." Something twisted in his face; he looked as though he wasn't completely sure he meant what he was about to say. "You could..."

L.L. left the thought hanging for a bit too long, but Suzaku understood and cut in before he could finish. "It's fine," he said quickly. "I wouldn't want to trouble you any more than I..." And he stopped at that, suddenly recalling that he'd been seeing this man almost everyday this week, and spent the entire evening with him today. It wasn't as though he knew anyone else from this part of town outside of work and school, but how much was too much? The belated realization unnerved him.

"It wouldn't be any trouble." L.L. looked at him oddly, as though he'd misunderstood. "You would sleep on the couch, of course."

He didn't like where this was leading. "It's fine," he insisted, again. It seemed to take a lot more effort than he'd expected to come up with anything else. "I appreciate the offer, really I do. It's just...you've already been so nice to me these past few days, as it is. I don't want you to think..." He swallowed; 'that you have to pity me' just lingered on the tip of his tongue, unable to break through.

"Putting others' needs before your own?" The man's gaze was sharp. "Again?"

Suzaku looked up. " 'Again'?" he echoed, confused, but L.L. had already looked away, shaking his head ("Never mind.") He decided to let it go. "Thanks again for having me over," he said cheerfully. "But I can't stay. Besides," he added jokingly, "imagine what the staff would say if they saw an Eleven leaving your room in the morning."

"The concierge already saw you come up with me."

"Concierge." Suzaku held up his left hand, followed by his right, just as L.L. had some time ago. "Everyone else." And then he smiled. "Mutually exclusive."

He was still wearing that smile when he finally turned and walked away with a backward wave. As he retraced their steps to the elevator, he wasn't sure why; maybe it was because, all things considered, there were parts of this day that weren't actually so bad. Maybe it was because he'd finished his first entire week of school, and didn't even realize it until now.

(Or maybe it was something simpler: the way L.L.'s eyes had widened slightly, the way his lips had frozen; inexplicably, there was something satisfying about turning the tables even with something so silly like this, although he couldn't imagine what it was.)

He hadn't taken ten steps, though, before he heard his name again. "Yes?"

L.L. had leaned forward a bit, half-into the hallway, but made no move to follow him. "If you're free tomorrow morning, come to Ashford at around nine. I'll wait for you at the gate." And he was smiling now, as well. "There's...someone I'd like you to meet."

* * *

Most nights that room at the end of the hallway, _2214_, was silent at 1 a.m. save for the sound of the television, or the tack-clacking of fingers across a keyboard. Some nights it would be filled with the sound of frying, coupled with a delicious aroma, but these were rather rare.

Rarer still was a night like this, with its sole occupant pacing across the room and speaking – not, however, into a phone.

"Two months without a single word and _this_ is how you choose to break the peace?" L.L. huffed in annoyance as he wrung the washcloth over the sink, laying it across the edge to dry. He'd just about finished tidying up, and was mulling over what to do next, when he was rudely interrupted.

And maybe a part of him secretly longed for the days when a sudden, foreign voice invading his mind would have brought more than just irritation.

"Busy?" He scoffed at her reply. "I'd pay to see that. I would wager you're just bored." There was a pause, and then he rolled his eyes. "I suppose I'll take that as a compliment. What do you want?"

L.L. listened intently, and what he heard sent a sickening weight straight to the pit of his stomach. "I see. Already?" He thought about something, changed his mind, and opened the refrigerator door. Spying the Chardonnay they'd used in cooking, he poured himself a glass and wished he had something stronger. He needed it; he really ought to have seen this coming. "And here I thought she might have a few more days, at the least. I didn't realize she was so far gone."

He didn't know if it was the wine that was inherently bitter, or if the accusation that followed made it so. "No, you're wrong. I explained it to her. I told her so many times not to – " C.C. interrupted him then, as she was wont to, and her voice was as sharp as he'd always remembered. "Then she didn't listen. I did my part, I _warned_ her about runaway! Unlike..."

The words to follow got caught in his throat, adding to the liquor's burn. L.L. gritted his teeth. His grip around the stem of the wine glass was so tight he was almost afraid (as half-forgotten memories of a surge of anger, an ill-timed command – _"Stay out of my life!"_ – and tears, and screams, flashed in the back of his head) that he might snap it.

"Unlike someone I know," he finally finished.

She was silent for a while after that, a small miracle in itself. He sighed and made his way to the window, watching the cars and people far below through the rim of the wine glass.

C.C. suggested that they change the subject, to which he replied, "Please."

He almost winced at the name she brought up; really, could she not have done better? Or maybe she was doing it on purpose. "He's the only one left," L.L. murmured into his wine. "I don't know where he is."

There had always been something disconcerting about being so high up: if he really wanted to, it would be so easy to break this window and fall to his death (but then again, what of it?) "Not lying," he protested with a sigh. "I haven't spoken with him in years. And I'm not about to go out of my way to look for him now." He swirled the wine in his hand; it probably didn't deserve the foul stare he was giving it. "He made his choice."

C.C.'s next question genuinely confused him. "Does it have anything to do with...what? What?" He blinked. "Suzaku?" He could feel his eyebrows knotting, and saw the deep frown even with his reflection heavily distorted by the liquid. "What about him?"

Even after all these years, he needed no reminders of how he could always trust C.C. to spin something so trivial so infuriatingly out of proportion. "He's a soldier. I met him at Shinjuku." L.L. drained his glass and, after taking one last look at the Settlement below, activated the black-screen on his windows. Briefly, very briefly, he entertained the notion of leaving the glass unwashed in the sink, to deal with in the morning. But that was absurd.

"I wouldn't say that. And no, I will not be making a contract with him." The statement carried with it a kind of gravity, thick and imposing especially in this silence, now that he'd shut off the tap and placed the newly-washed glass on the rack to dry. "What do you mean, 'and why not?' He isn't interested." And, L.L. thought to himself again, given how all of his contractees invariably ended up, neither was he.

But then she asked the obvious question, and he didn't have a ready answer.

"Because..." He pressed his lips together and leaned against the counter. "He's intriguing."

That didn't satisfy her. "He's different from everyone else."

Neither did that. "Well, there's something about him. It's...something that defies explanation, among other things." He shook his head. "Regardless, he's a fascinating individual, and he seems to carry a lot of secrets." Like a puzzle, he wanted to add, but C.C. beat him to it with a teasing drawl. He bit back a smile, refusing to acknowledge the part of him that had missed this banter, no matter how frustrating it sometimes wound up. "Precisely."

...And then she suggested something utterly preposterous.

"Of...of course not!" he sputtered hotly. "I'm not...Suzaku isn't...I never even _considered_..."

But it was too late. In a flippant and obnoxiously loud drawl that filled his brain, C.C. took her train of thought and quite gleefully ran with it, the words she spouted becoming more and more ridiculous by the second. "Shut up witch," he ground out, barely keeping his irritation at bay.

It was to no avail, of course, so he decided to play his trump card right away. "If you don't stop, I _will_ order a pizza, right now. Just to spite you."

When she called his bluff (after a particularly long pause that gave her away, hah, _checkmate_) he upped the ante by saying nonchalantly, "I will eat it _slowly_."

Victory – no matter how trivial or temporary – always tasted sweet, and L.L. smiled as he headed for his bedroom, flicking off the kitchen lights along the way.

* * *

Fifteen minutes away from the financial district, at the very heart of the upper-class residential area there, a single room on the top floor of a sprawling mansion still had its lights switched on. This was the room that overlooked the front gardens through a magnificently arched window, but its occupant paid this no heed.

Instead, she was parked in front of her mirror, trying on several wigs and frowning at her reflection.

At the door, her sister stood with an expression that struggled between mortification and frustration: "This is foolish, Euphy," she had said more than once, but the younger princess was being unusually stubborn about this little excursion of hers, in a week's time yet. "Even without the wheelchair, someone is bound to recognize you for sure. What more now?"

"That's why I'll be going in disguise," she replied patiently, a note of finality in her cheerful voice. Cornelia threw up her arms and stalked out of the room; Euphy spared her only a quick glance through the mirror, before shrugging and reaching for a pair of clear glasses, studying her reflection from all angles.

(On the other side of town, a young boy slept under the stars.)

* * *

Ashford Academy was deathly silent on a Saturday morning, especially one like this where the sun burned and there wasn't even a breeze. Suzaku braced his hands against the back of the concrete bench and leaned back, tilting his head as far as he could without blinding himself. There was a part of him that wanted for the usual chaos he would come upon, the laughter and footsteps and misfires of motorbikes before the school day. While he did welcome the relative peace, this side of Ashford was entirely new to him.

Places were only defined by the people who filled them, it seemed, a part of him reflected idly. Here, without its cheerful students rushing this way and that, the campus lost its usual air of insouciance, just as peace flooded whatever room in the barracks the moment the last officer left for the day. In the end, it was all the same.

"It seems you're the one who is early today."

L.L. had a messenger bag slung over his shoulder, one hand on the strap and tapping at the buckle. Clad in a dress shirt with a soft purple wash, several shades lighter than his eyes, his outfit seemed a tad too formal for a weekend, and such a hot one at that. He squinted; the man was blocking his sun. "That surprise you? I try not to be late as much as I can."

"Oh, no." He shook his head and chuckled. "I just wasn't certain you would show at all."

Neither was he, Suzaku had to admit. But then again, it wasn't as though he had many other options on how to spend his weekend to begin with.

"Well, I'm glad you're here." L.L. smiled at him for a fraction of a second before inclining his head. "Shall we?"

They walked past empty benches, the chapel to their left, plump bushes neatly trimmed and bordered by pebbles set in rings. They glimpsed the library with its massive white pillars and endless steps arranged in threes. A single blue bike and its sidecar occupied the small lot beside it, chained to a rack; _BMC-RR-1200_, he thought, recognizing the model immediately. He wished he hadn't.

"Almost all of the students here live in the dorms, especially if they would otherwise have to cross the ghettoes to get home. They're on the northern side, atop the hill." L.L. was pointing in that vague direction, past the gym and the science complex, but he couldn't see all that clearly through the trees there. "It's extremely convenient. You should consider it."

"I think I'm fine living across the street. Five, ten minutes' walk – doesn't make all that much of a difference." Suzaku knew exactly where this was going, though, waiting...

"I see. How is your room now?"

There it was. "I fixed what I could. Miss Cécile said she'd send someone to look at the door today." That woman's concern was perplexing as well; he hadn't planned to tell her (or anyone, really) about the vandalism, but when she spotted him searching through the drawers in the metal shop for tools at six in the morning, it didn't leave him much of a choice. "I suppose I'm no match for a professional, anyway."

L.L. was nodding the entire time. "And the window? Forecast says it might rain tonight."

"I..." (He'd taped a mesh of garbage bags across the frame.) "...have it under control."

"If you say so." L.L. had brought out his phone, a sleek silver thing, and begun typing. "I'd still keep my options open if I were you. I imagine even at this time of year, not all of the rooms are fully occupied. A number of students could very well be looking for a roommate." He looked away from the screen just long enough to glance at his watch, without falling a single beat out of step. "There are two to a room, by the way. The administrators try to keep roommates within the same year, but you can request otherwise."

"The thing is," Suzaku began, feeling as though he needed to end this thought before it could grow any larger, or more detailed, in the other man's head. "The headquarters of the unit I'm assigned to is in the university anyway, so it makes sense that my quarters are there. And I chose this, so..."

"Is that what defines you, then?" L.L. quipped when he trailed off. Snapping his phone shut, he had his lips twisted in a thoughtful expression. "You identify more with the solider, Warrant Officer Kururugi, than the student."

"I don't really know about that." They both knew that wasn't true, though; perhaps it was about time to end this conversation as well, before it could venture somewhere less than pleasant. "You know a lot about Ashford," he said without segue, repeating his observation from last week. "Were you a student here?"

And by some miracle, L.L. let him get away with it. "Not here, no." He smiled as he broke off their path and walked up a short flight of stairs. "Come on."

Suzaku stared at him. He recognized this building, Ashford's clubhouse. "I thought we were going to the dorms?"

"I said _most_ students live in the dorms," L.L. reminded him. He didn't have to look when he pressed on the doorbell. "Some of them live here."

An Eleven maid bowed by way of greeting as she opened the door. "Please come in. Miss Nunnally will just be a few more minutes; she's rather excited to meet with you both."

Suzaku found himself bowing back; it still felt natural to him, even after all these years. Had L.L. told her about him? 'Nunnally'...it was an odd name, but it sounded vaguely familiar. He wondered if he'd heard it, even in passing, somewhere before.

They climbed a grand staircase, and L.L. was moving a bit more slowly than expected. Still, he was the one who knew the way, and so Suzaku had no choice but to match his pace. He couldn't recall ever seeing the man in a hurry, he'd just started to think, had L.L. not muttered something about 'always hating this part.' "What's that?"

"Nothing." He sighed, pausing when they reached the second-floor landing. "Have you been in here before?"

"Not really," Suzaku replied with a shake of his head. He'd learned from Kallen which clubs had their meetings in this building, on this floor – art, various science clubs, the Student Council – and none of them were groups he could ever really imagine himself fitting into.

And besides, that didn't even matter all that much anyway, because...

"Are you still having trouble with that?" L.L. asked as they ascended yet another flight.

They'd already talked about this – over Wednesday's dinner, if he recalled correctly. "I guess nobody's really thrilled at the thought of letting an Eleven into their club." He smiled wanly. "I have tryouts for the swim team on Monday, but I think it'll be more of the same."

"It shouldn't be," L.L. frowned. "I'd expect swimming to have you compete against the clock, no? It's an objective measure."

He shrugged. So had track and field, but his lap times didn't even figure into the final decision at all.

"Well, what are you going to do?"

"I'm not sure." The rules were clear: all students enrolled at the Academy had to be a member of at least one student-run organization. But at the rate things were going... "I guess I'll just make it up as I go along." That was how he managed almost everything else, after all.

"I suppose there's no sense in worrying about it yet," L.L. conceded. "Monday will come when it comes, but for now let's see if we can get you acquainted with some of the members of this colorful household, shall we?" Without waiting for a reply, he strode purposefully towards the second door from the stairway, which had been left ajar. He pushed it open with a broad grin: "Hello? Anyone home?"

Peering inside from behind, Suzaku caught sight of a kitchen, larger than L.L.'s but of a more traditional, homelike design. Sunlight streaming in through the open windows played easily off the warm creams and pale oranges of the interior, curtains and tablecloths graced with whimsical designs of fruits and flowers with faces on them. In the center of the room, at a large wooden table, two girls stood putting the final touches on an elaborate chocolate cake. The girl to the right, piping the icing with smudges of flour on her face, looked up at them as they entered; she ended up squeezing the tube too hard, blotting out what seemed to be the middle of a word. "L-Lulu!"

"Well well, look who finally decided to grace us with his presence." The taller girl, blonde with blue eyes and a mischievous smirk, wiped her hands calmly on her apron as her friend sputtered and tried to undo her mistake. "Weren't you supposed to come here last week?"

"I was, but I was a bit busy that day." L.L. flashed her a smile, still every bit as cool despite his now-rueful demeanor. "I'm terribly sorry about that."

"Oh you don't have to apologize to _me_, save it for..." She paused, looking past his shoulder and tilting her head curiously. "Oh, hello. Don't I know you?"

"Hey..." By now the other girl had finished whatever it was she was doing, and made her way to where they were crowding the entrance to the kitchen. "Aren't you the new student, Suzaku-something?" He nodded, and she brightened up in an instant. "I'm Shirley! We're in the same class!"

"Right," he said, finally recognizing her. "I sit three rows behind you."

"Shirley always sits in front," L.L. quipped, a slight, teasing smirk on his face. "Ever the model student."

"Oh, no!" She laughed at that, but a pinkish tint had invaded her cheeks. "That's not...that is, I'm not really...Suzaku!" She snapped her gaze to him as though he provided a welcome distraction. "Are you here to see Nana?"

He had no idea who 'Nana' was, but the other girl mercifully stepped in to salvage the conversation. "That's the plan. She's all excited too, so it's a good thing you're early." She gave L.L. a quick hug before holding out her hand to him; it was coated in confectionery sugar. "Millay Ashford," she stated proudly. "Ashford Academy Student Council President!"

"You know that means nothing outside of class hours," L.L. drawled, before nodding towards the cake on the table. "What's the occasion?"

"My father's finally coming back from his business trip today!" Shirley gushed.

"Mr. Fenette's been gone so long," Millay picked up, "so she thought it would be nice to celebrate the reunion."

"That's sweet," Suzaku said, almost before he realized it.

"You think so?" Shirley seemed pleased at this anyway. "I really hope he likes it!"

"Which is why we have to _finish_ it," the other girl reminded her pointedly. Taking them both by the hand, Millay surprised him with her grip as she all but dragged them to the dining room. "How about you both wait for her in here, hmmm? I promised Shirley I'd be by her side till the bitter end!...Of this endeavor, at least."

The dining room was connected to the kitchen by a single door. It was more formally decorated, with a long table that sat eight, although one chair was notably missing. They took their seats near the window, and while L.L. began unpacking the contents of his messenger bag (books, and more books) Suzaku hardly waited until Millay disappeared into the kitchen once more. "So...'Lulu'?" he parroted, trying and failing to fight back a smile.

"Please don't, it's too easy." L.L. rolled his eyes with a mock sigh. "I applied for this job under the name 'Louis Liouville' just as a formality. I thought it would then be reasonable to ask to be addressed as 'L.L.' but, apparently, Shirley thought of something else."

"As a formality? So that's not your name at all?"

The man leaned back in his chair, drumming his fingers against the armrests and staring up at the ceiling with a bemused expression. "You really are rather perceptive when it comes to the most inane matters sometimes."

Suzaku wasn't sure how to take that. "I don't understand. Why go through all this trouble? Why not just go by your real name?"

"Hmm. Why not, indeed."

It didn't matter whether or not L.L. actually planned to elaborate on that (his money was on the latter), because at that moment the main door to the dining room slid open. He first saw the maid from earlier, then the charge she was wheeling into the room: fourteen, maybe fifteen years old, the girl in the wheelchair was wearing a yellow cardigan over a green summer dress that reached her knees, skirt weighted down by several books on her lap. Wisps of light brown hair framed closed eyes; the rest of it trailed down her back and sides, to her waist.

For the first couple of seconds he actually waited for her to open her eyes. When she didn't, he finally understood.

"I can take it from here, Miss Sayoko." Her voice was light and merry, brimming with cheer that quickly filled the rest of the room. "Thank you."

Sayoko bowed at them and retreated back into the hallway. Before she'd even reached the door, L.L. had already gotten up and crossed over to the other side of the dining table, kneeling beside the girl and taking her books into his arms. "Nunnally." There was a tenderness to his voice the boy had never heard before. "It's always good to see you."

"I'm so glad you could come!" She reached out a hand in his general direction, and he quickly deposited his cargo onto the table to take it. Her smile lit up the room when he did. "It's been awhile...oh, you brought your friend!"

Suzaku looked up then, startled; had he been thinking aloud?

"I can hear your heartbeat. L.L. taught me how," she explained, as though that resolved everything, and motioned for him to come over. L.L. released her hand with a smile as he approached her, and she held it out to him invitingly. "Nunnally Ashford. I'm Millay's sister."

"Suzaku," he supplied, dropping down to one knee and accepting the handshake. He almost forgot to add, "Sumeragi. It's nice to meet you."

She shook his hand gingerly, but her grip grew firm when he thought it was time to pull away. Gently, she took his hand in both of hers, folding it into a loose fist and pressing the backs of his fingers against her cheek, barely clearing the bandages. "Kind hands," she commented after a pause, in which he was too stunned by the action to reply. "So warm."

"Suzaku just started attending classes at Ashford this week," L.L. said for her benefit. "He's in Shirley's class."

"That's great! How are you liking it here so far?"

"It's been..." Suzaku finally retracted his hand and struggled to find the right word. "Eye-opening. But a lot of fun, for the most part."

"I'm glad." Nunnally beamed at him, curls bouncing merrily as she tipped her head to the side. "I'm attending the middle-school here myself. It was hard at first, but then we met L.L. Since then, it's been getting easier."

"Oh." He looked at the man, who was standing behind his chair, arms braced against the backrest. "And L.L. is...?"

"Her tutor," the man finished for him, smiling affably. "I've been helping her with some of her classes, mostly every other weekend."

"Mostly," she stressed, wheeling herself over to the empty space at the head of the table. "He stood me up last week," she added, but the singsong tone and giggles that followed cleared any possible resentment on her part. "But my exams aren't until next Monday anyway, so it's all good." And then she turned to him. "Will you be staying with us, Suzaku?"

He thought about it for a bit. What else could he possibly be doing? He could return to his self-imposed general cleaning at the dorm, or he could pop in unexpectedly at headquarters and volunteer himself as Lloyd's guinea pig for the day. Neither choice seemed as particularly enjoyable as just sitting here, getting to know Millay's sister more, and possibly witnessing L.L. as a teacher – he couldn't imagine it. "Sure," he replied, pulling up the chair beside her and taking his seat, across L.L. now. "If it's alright with you, that is."

Nunnally hid a giggle behind her hand. "Of course it is!" She felt around for her books, ran her hands along the bumps in the spines and identified one somehow, plucking it from the stack and setting it out before her. And then she stopped herself: "Oh! Would anyone like some tea?"

"I'd care for some," L.L. obliged.

"Earl Grey, hint of honey and milk?" she smiled at him as though reciting a litany.

He smiled back. "As always."

Although he preferred Japanese tea himself, Suzaku wasn't sure why they would stock that in the kitchen, and so decided he would have the same thing. Nodding once, Nunnally had wheeled herself back and clear of the table before he realized his thoughtlessness and sprang to his feet. "Wait! Let me – "

Nunnally wheeled herself in front of him to block his path, more quickly than he'd been expecting. Her bemused grin killed his train of thought. "Please sit down," she said, and her voice faltered as though she were trying not to laugh. "This is my house, and you're both guests here. I'd be a terrible hostess if I asked you to help yourselves, wouldn't I?"

Suzaku sat down slowly as she wheeled herself into the kitchen, humming a merry tune.

"She's a spirited one, isn't she?" L.L. commented as soon as the door swung shut.

He nodded in assent. "So you're a private tutor? You didn't tell me that."

"Again, I don't think you ever asked."

That was true, too. "How long have you known her?"

"Several years now. She didn't want to attend a special school for the visually-impaired; she wanted to go to Ashford, which is where I come in. She doesn't technically _need _my help, but the extra practice keeps her grades at the top of her class." L.L. had propped his arms against the edge of the table, eyeing the book she'd selected intently. "Millay's family adopted her at a young age. Her previous parents were...unfit."

"Oh. That's..." He swallowed hard (he didn't want to think about it, he _didn't want to think about it_.) "Terrible."

"It's refined her, I suppose." L.L. looked back up at him, smiling slightly. "She's strong, so much stronger than she looks."

His eyes softened. "You really like her," he noted.

"I do." The man nodded. "She is...like a sister to me."

When Nunnally returned, L.L. opened one of his books and began reviewing the material. They went over modern history, mostly, as well as some classical literature he recognized only by title, having never studied any of the works formally himself. He stayed because this was interesting, and because he learned a lot of other things in that frame of time: how L.L. spoke of historical events, recent and otherwise, with all the nonchalance of a casual observer (but that thought was silly, he chided himself), how he and Nunnally had mastered that code with matrices of dots arranged neatly on a page, how they often skipped over chapters involving the Royal Family. When he asked about this last one, Nunnally just giggled and said that Millay was enough of a gossip queen to keep her well-informed about the subject; that, and it always seemed to annoy L.L. one way or another, which sounded...just like him, he realized.

Surprisingly, she held his hand almost the entire time, letting go only to turn a page or pick up her teacup as she 'read' with her other one. Her fingers were soft and exceedingly smooth, slightly colder than his but exuding an entirely different kind of warmth altogether. He didn't pull away – he didn't want to offend her, and in all honesty this was rather comforting, somehow – but he wanted to, more than once. He imagined she could feel the roughness of his palm, the calluses on the side of his thumb and beneath his trigger finger. He didn't want her to ask about them, because he wouldn't know what to say. He didn't want her to ever wonder about how much blood these hands had seen.

_Because seven years ago, when the crickets were noisy and the night was clear, a ten-year-old boy stepped into his father's study, bearing a childish entreaty to stop the violence, stop the – _

A subtle tightening of her grasp on his hand shook him back to reality. He looked up; L.L. was still speaking, but Nunnally was facing him, a hint of a frown on her delicate features. He gave her fingers a reassuring squeeze then, smiling as though she could see it. She couldn't, of course, but for some reason this seemed to put her at ease once more.

He tried not to let those thoughts cloud him for the rest of that hour.

* * *

There was something strangely poetic about it, watching those two from afar.

L.L. kept his hand on the doorknob, a soft smile tugging on the corner of his lips. He'd excused himself to make a quick phone call (tying up loose ends, the last he would ever concern himself with Nagoya) and took care of it in the kitchen. But even now that he was done, instead of returning to the dining room he chose to just stand here, peering through the crack in the door, telling himself that a few more moments couldn't hurt.

Their interaction followed a rhythm, something subtly cyclical like a villanelle: she would listen with rapt attention while he regaled her with tales of something fantastic, eyes bright and smile wide. Then he would say something in all seriousness and she would burst into giggles, and he would blink, looking utterly confused.

"Wow, they certainly hit it off, huh?"

He'd already known Millay was in the same room, but he'd been so engrossed with watching the two that he hadn't noticed her coming his way. She was looking too, past his shoulder now, and a similar smile lit up her face. "Yes, they certainly seem to be enjoying themselves."

"Well I'm glad you thought to bring him along. Nunnally's always looking for some new friends, and he seems like a good person."

"He is," L.L. nodded in assent. Nunnally was showing him some of her paper cranes now, delicate creations in pink and red and blue; Suzaku picked one up and held it in his hand, toying with it as though memorizing each fold. "I would not have brought him within ten feet of her otherwise."

"Always good to hear you have my sister's best interests at heart." Millay laughed and patted his arm. Retreating back into the heart of the kitchen, she called out over her shoulder, "Was this only for his benefit, though, I wonder?"

L.L. looked away. At first he considered lying, but what would be the point? "For Suzaku's as well, in a way," he replied. "I'd hoped that...well, he's been having a bit of trouble."

"Trouble." She repeated the word with a pensive look, although she didn't pause in gathering up the various pans, wrappers and ingredients still cluttering the work table. Shirley must have already left. "At school?"

"You could say that." Granted, the boys responsible for trashing his dorm room were from the university, but it didn't seem as though Suzaku's time at Ashford thus far had been a walk in the park either.

Millay heaved a sigh, staring at her hands. "I take it you're not talking about his grades."

If only. "You're a year ahead of him," he mused. "I suppose you haven't really had the opportunity."

She shook her head. "I'm not everywhere at once. They're not...they're not hurting him though, are they?"

"No." They had to have at least that much decency. "Not that I've heard of."

"And yet – don't tell me." Millay was transferring all the excess flour into an airtight container, struggling with the bulky bag. "Just because they're not physically hurting him, doesn't mean they're not making his life miserable."

L.L. crossed the room in several quick strides, holding up the bottom end to give her a hand. "That wasn't what I was thinking."

"I know. It's what _I_ was thinking." She closed the lid and took the empty bag from his hands, thanking him with a smile. "We've never had a non-Britannian student enroll at the Academy before, so I get that this is something new. But I wonder if it's really that much of a big deal...Britannians, Numbers..." Her smile softened at the duet of laughter suddenly echoing from the other room. "He seems sweet."

"This is partly why I brought him here today," L.L. admitted, wiping flour from his hands. "The more he gets to know people like you, and Nunnally, who don't judge him solely on his being an Eleven..." The boy _had_ mentioned his superiors at A.S.E.E.C. this way, he recalled now, but who knew if their kindness was genuine and not clouded by their need for his talents? "...The easier it will be for him to face...everyone else."

"My, but you do seem awfully fond of the boy," Millay joked, an impish grin on her face.

L.L. rolled his eyes. "Is there any reply I can come up with that you _won't_ simply twist to your own desires?"

She pretended to think about it. "Nope! I do have a talent for it." And then she giggled. "You've known me long enough, haven't you?"

He grinned. "Touché."

"But now that we're on this topic..." She shut the last of the cupboard doors and proceeded to hoist herself up onto the now-spotless wooden table. "I don't believe you've told me how you two met."

"Accident. A window gave, and I was standing underneath. He pushed me out of the way." Not a complete lie, he reminded himself.

"Ohhh." Millay seemed genuinely impressed. "No wonder you're going out of your way to help him. You want to return the favor."

"Yes." Although he wasn't entirely sure anymore; _damn C.C._ – "I hate to ask, but do you think there's anything you can do, anything to make him feel more welcome to the student body? You're their president, after all."

"That's true, but...it's not as if I speak for everyone there. These things take time." She pondered over it for a moment, but whatever she was thinking of gave way to alarm: "Wait, does he know about Nunnally?"

"Of course not." He hadn't missed the sudden note of panic in her voice, and so placated her this way. "I couldn't possibly be so careless." In the same way, he wasn't planning on telling her that Suzaku was a soldier, or even worse, Genbu Kururugi's son. Neither secret was really his to share.

"I know." She looked away, and was biting on her lip uneasily. "It's just that..."

"Just that what?" he prodded.

"I'm not sure how long we can keep this up." The smile she flashed then was slightly crooked, and he saw right through it. "I keep wondering if one day, they'll take her back from us. Or worse." She swung her long legs over the edge of the table, letting them dangle and swing through the space underneath. "You know how it is, right?"

He did. And the thought incensed him. "They have no right," he declared, wringing the cloth in his hands.

"Well, it's not as if I'm in any position to deny royalty, anyway..."

L.L. turned to her (in the other room, Nunnally was saying something about a stray cat that had walked into the clubhouse, one they'd adopted – apparently, she was introducing them), and softened his gaze. "That again?"

Millay laughed forlornly. "My mother insists that I take this whole matchmaking thing seriously. She's been setting me up with men left and right, and yet..."

He smirked. "None of them are worthy of you?" he suggested.

She delighted in that, because this time her laughter was more genuine, bouncing merrily off the walls. "Or the other way around, it seems." She leaned forward as he moved to place the folded cloth back on the table. Cupping her chin in her hands, elbows resting on her knees, amusement glittered in her eyes. "Oh, if only I could just marry _you._" She sighed melodramatically, but her eyebrows were dancing. "Then Nunnally would always have you around, and that would get Mother off my back. Win-win, don't you think?"

L.L. laughed good-naturedly. "Unfortunately I don't have any title or nobility to speak of, which immediately makes me ineligible to apply." His lips quirked as she rolled her eyes. "Besides, I don't think I would make a very good provider anyway. My choice of employment is rather...volatile."

"Oh, are you _still_ up to that?" He chuckled, and Millay huffed at that, wearing a mock-pout of disapproval. For a moment he thought she was going to launch into one of her pre-prepared spiels about how gambling was wrong and teaching suited him better, but a startled yelp from the other room (Nunnally scolding "Arthur!" between laughs) pre-empted it. "I'd say it's about time you headed back there," she said, breaking into a grin. "You're still on the clock, _Mister _L.L.!"

He humored her with half-hearted concessions and even weaker protests as she grabbed him by the shoulders, twirled him around and pushed him to the door. Among the latter, but arguably the truest of them all: how he didn't do this for the money. He never had.

* * *

That night, halfway through the weekend when the rest of the Area was either dead to the world or out making merry, many things were being discussed at the hideout of the Japanese Liberation Front.

Things such as: who would make the approach, which unit would act as decoy, whose team would smuggle the explosives into the hotel. How much ransom to demand, how they would defend the tunnel beneath. Spirits were high, voices hushed but excited, and the half-dozen men sitting around a mess of maps, blueprints and employee data files were animated with their gestures. _It's coming_, the room seemed to breathe. _Victory. The first of many._

But that sentiment choked and died when the door slid open, arresting their plans. It was silly to think, in part, that the arrival of an ally would put such a damper on their mood. But this was exactly what happened when a stone-faced Tohdoh stood alone in the doorway, pointing his sheathed _katana_ at the current ringleader, and commanding the rest of these men: "Leave us."

They were in there for what had to be over twenty minutes, throughout which Tohdoh didn't bother with formalities and Kusakabe didn't bother feigning ignorance. For their part, the men who had been evicted from the room merely stood right outside it, and they found that they didn't have to press their ears against the panels or even lean in closer to hear: the paper-thin walls were more than happy to oblige them.

That this was 'too soon,' as expected, started it off, a rather flimsy opening countered by the other party reminding him _how long_ it had been: seven years. Japan was restless, thirsting for something to hope for, to cling to. Itsukushima was too distant a memory, and her people wanted to fight; that incident at the service depot was all the proof they needed for that.

And yet, at what price? The JLF as it was now simply did not have the power to take on the Britannian military, especially under Cornelia. With that incident and the deaths of Clovis' Royal Guard, the authorities were on high alert. Engaging them now would be suicide, said one.

(But if they succeeded, no victory could ever be as glorious, said another.)

And they wouldn't be alone; they could _hear _the smile in Kusakabe's voice when he revealed that they had gotten in touch with Shinjuku's by-now infamous resistance cell...and that they had all agreed to help.

This only seemed to anger Tohdoh even more. Whose name had been used to convince them, he demanded hoarsely, and Kusakabe only chuckled because the deed had already been done. The die had been cast. Now, there was no way to go but –

The men outside snapped to attention when the door slid open once more, but Tohdoh was not even looking at them. "You will call off this operation," he was telling the man with narrowed eyes. "Contact Ohgi's cell and tell them we're aborting the mission. And in the future, if there are to be any more covert assignments that I am supposedly to lead, I will _not _be the last to find out." He replaced the sword through the hook in his belt, the loud click echoing ominously in the hallway. "_Especially_ if this endeavor is one to which I am decidedly opposed."

They watched the colonel storm out of the hallway, relaxing from their tense salutes only when the last of his shadow finally slipped away.

Finally, someone dared to break the silence: "We're still pushing through, right?"

"Of course we are." Kusakabe's eyes gleamed with something other than fervor, than anger. "Tohdoh isn't the only one on this planet capable of staging miracles." He flashed a grisly smile. "I intend to show them that."

..._Onward_. With or without him, Japan would begin her counterattack.

* * *

Monday came when it came, just as L.L. had said. And just as the second bell announced the end of the school day with its sonorous report, Suzaku was staring miserably at his locker – that, and the unfamiliar _second_ lock that had been placed over his own.

He sighed through his teeth, already crouched down on the floor with his books piled beside him. It was a brass padlock he was currently fiddling with, having stuck a straightened-out paper clip into the hole and poking blindly at the tumblers for the past ten minutes or so. He already knew this endeavor was doomed from the start (because he really wasn't good at this, and weren't there usually _two_ implements needed to get the job done?) But he needed to do _something_, and all things considered he would still be in this hopeless predicament otherwise, unless –

"Step asiiide, please!"

Suzaku pulled back at the loud, authoritative voice, and was rewarded with the odd sight of Millay Ashford wielding a pair of bolt-cutters. She'd braced a foot atop his books for leverage, but still struggled to get the lock between the jaws. Jumping to his feet, he quickly relieved her of the clumsy tool. "Madame President, you're a lifesaver," he breathed. "How did you – ?"

"Well I couldn't find you at the pool, which is where I thought you were going to be at this time. Shirley told me you never showed up, which meant you either decided to skip out altogether, ooor..." She trailed off, leaning against the opposite wall of lockers with a curious smile.

Two snaps made quick work of the offending item, which fell in pieces at his feet. He decided not to ask why Millay had such an odd, cumbersome thing in her possession. "Wait. You were looking for me?"

"Mm-hmm!" She grinned brightly. "And since you technically owe me a favor now, Suzaku, would it be all right if I collect right away?"

"Anything," he replied, already back on his knees and working on the combination of his own lock. His tryouts weren't technically for another ten minutes (_eight,_ a quick glance at the clock corrected, and he cursed silently), but he had to hurry. "What did you have in mind?"

He was really only half-listening as she replied: "Well, Shirley, myself, and one other girl from your class were all planning to go to Lake Kawaguchi this weekend! I was wondering if you would want to come along, maybe serve as a tour guide of sorts so that we don't get hopelessly lost? Other than that, it's just an excuse to all hang out together! What do you say?"

Weekend, he repeated to himself, shoving his books into the locker. That just seemed so far away at this point. But he was planning to report to A.S.E.E.C. after these tryouts anyway, so maybe he could ask Lloyd if he planned to make him work that..."Saturday?"

"Yes! And thank you!" Suzaku glanced up quickly, about to protest, but Millay had already hoisted the bolt-cutters onto her shoulder, supporting the handles with one arm and waving cheerfully with the other. "This is going to be so much fun, I can't wait!"

"But I – "

"Oh, and bring L.L. along!" she was already calling out as she headed back into the hallway. "For Shirley's sake!"

He really should have put more thought into that sudden invitation, he would eventually come to realize. But as it was, an instinctive look at the clock again told him he had a little over six minutes to spare, and at that point all thoughts of Millay, Shirley, L.L. and Saturday evaporated from his mind; his thoughts were racing as he grabbed his trunks and spare uniform from the locker, beyond caring if he rumpled them in his haste. The pool was in a complex usually ten minutes away on foot; was it possible to get there in five?

Snapping the lock shut, Suzaku hoisted his bag over his shoulder and broke into a sprint. As with many other things, he would have to find out the hard way.

* * *

Notes for Chapter 6:

- For those who think the first scene seems familiar, you might have good reason: part of it is based off the drabble I wrote for April 12 of '3-3-3', entitled _Spring Cleaning_. Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that piece was written in anticipation of _this _one...well, whichever works. They're very similar.

- The design of L.L.'s hotel room is roughly based on a typical Deluxe Suite of the Peninsula Tokyo. I say 'roughly' because the actual room doesn't have a kitchen unit, but in my head I swapped that for the extra office space connected to the living room. (Because: two office desks? L.L.? Really?)

- Given that Braille was developed in 1821 at the earliest, I'm not sure its use would have been as widespread in Geass-verse (especially in Britannia) as it is today. Still, I'd imagine some system of raised dots would still be the most convenient; including dashes and other things would just complicate life needlessly. Barbier's night-writing proposal, for example, also used this general idea.

- L.L.'s random alias in this chapter (one of many) is taken from Louis XIV and mathematician Joseph Liouville. Yes, they are both French.

- In this universe, Nunnally is just the slightest bit spunkier (possibly the result of being 'raised' by someone like Millay). No blood relations to L.L., but their connection will be explored more deeply in future chapters. You might also notice that Suzaku, as well, is more than a little messed-up in the head. That...is an explanation to be left for another chapter, although I strongly suspect some of you may have already figured it out by now.

- In canon, Shirley gives Suzaku less than a day's notice about their Lake Kawaguchi trip. Here, Millay gives him about a week. Sometimes, timing really _is_ everything.

In the interest of preserving word-count, review-replies have been posted on my journal (direct link is in my profile, if you're interested; some reviews contained some very interesting questions/insights you guys might want to look into.) But many, many thanks to **teno-hikari, Drakyndra, CGRD, MOYva****, ****terracannon876, Youko-Kuramas-Kitsune, GreenOnBlack****, ****verired, Persephone1****, ****The Window****, ****Seriyuu, .line****, Yamiro, slivershell, Mithluin, A non a miss, Melamori, DarkBlueChild, Sam-Sam-Samedi, Spunkay Skunk, plummy-kins, Vestis, Kittycat-popko, InkWave, AngelicDemon97 **and **ishala8 **for leaving wonderful reviews and providing me with much happiness as I read them ^_^. (Also, kudos and cookies to Spunkay Skunk for correctly identifying Chapter 5's mystery Geass-woman: Alicia Lohmeyer, from R2.)

Welp, this chapter is definitely a week late. I make no excuses aside from the usual suspects: work, school, all that fun stuff. I also suffered a week-ish-long dry spell in the middle of July, for some reason. It seemed as though _Dis Aliter Visum_ bled me dry, and for the longest time I just could not get anything written for this story. I eventually recovered, though, and I sincerely hope this chapter delivered. I don't usually enjoy writing chapters like this, where – if you really think about it and deconstruct it – at the end of the day _nothing really happens_. But I had to set the stage (haha...Stage) for Chapter 7, so now that I've gotten _that _out of the way and placed all the main players exactly where I want them...let the madness begin.

Next chapter: There's a 'party' at Lake Kawaguchi, and everyone's invited. Isn't serendipity wonderful?

Anyway, thanks a lot for reading, especially if you made it all the way down here through all my babbling up there! Reviews, questions, comments, (cookies), all that good stuff are, as always, more than welcome ^_^.


	7. Stage 07: To the Wolves

Disclaimer: _Code Geass_ – with its characters, settings, and all other borrowed elements here – is the sole property of its creators. I do this purely for my own entertainment, and (hopefully) that of my readers as well.

Opening lines of this chapter are taken from Yellowcard's _Bombers_.

Warnings for this chapter: The usual language and violence.

Enjoy!

* * *

The sun was already rather high in the sky when their train left the Tokyo Settlement. Daylight streamed through the windows, lighting up the car's interior and livening its velvet and cherry motif. Strains of soft music were piped in from behind the walls, so that violins drowned out the roar of the wind as they sped across the tracks.

"Ah, isn't this great?" Shirley bounced excitedly from her seat beside the window. "I haven't gone on a trip like this since forever!"

"That's because you're always busy with something or another," Millay teased. "You really ought to get out more!"

"Millay," L.L.'s bored voice drawled from across her, "it's not a bad thing if Shirley happens to be a diligent student. That's important, right?"

The blonde laughed merrily at that, although Shirley herself merely shrank into her seat, embarrassed. "It's not just that," she mumbled, speaking to the drink in her hand while chewing on its straw. "There's also the work we do for the Student Council, and then swim meets too."

"Which reminds me." Millay leaned forward, addressing the last member of their group who had been a silent, smiling witness to this whole exchange. "I don't think I've congratulated you for making the swim team yet! Good going!"

"Thanks," Suzaku laughed, scratching the back of his head. "Although, I couldn't have done it without your help – " A shrug and a dimpled grin informed him that Millay remembered, and knew exactly what he was talking about. " – Or Shirley's recommendation, so really, you girls deserve more of the credit than I do."

"What are you talking about?" Shirley blinked at him incredulously, before turning to address L.L. "Suzaku did the hundred-meter freestyle in less than forty-nine seconds. _Forty-nine_ seconds!"

"An impressive time." L.L., who was seated beside him, raised his eyebrows. "They would have been foolish _not _to let you join."

"So what better way to celebrate than with a day-trip among friends!" Millay declared, striking a dramatic pose – as much as she could, at least, sandwiched between Shirley and the armrest. Grinning, she hooked an arm around the unsuspecting girl. "I feel so much safer going to the lake now, knowing we have such strong swimmers in our midst! Suzaku can save L.L., and you'll save me, won't you?"

"Madame President!" Shirley squirmed away, appalled. "Don't say things like that!"

"Oho! Would you like it to be the other way around?"

As Shirley sputtered and L.L. chided Millay for giving her a hard time, Suzaku smiled and contented himself to stare out the window. Gaining permission to take this Saturday off had required little real effort on his part, mostly because he only had to present the question and then watch the two scientists bicker in front of him. Lloyd said there were experiments to run, Cécile said they could wait over the weekend; Lloyd lamented the loss of productivity, Cécile smiled and sweetly suggested that his definition of 'productivity' was skewed beyond repair, which then devolved into an argument on semantics while Suzaku waited for their verdict from the door. It took the better part of an hour.

Actually, convincing L.L. had been harder, he recalled. While the man claimed he generally enjoyed the company of Millay and some of her friends, he just didn't 'particularly delight in such excursions.' _'But Shirley will be so disappointed!'_ Suzaku had said, to which L.L. replied by asking him, with an unreadable stare, if bringing that up meant _he_ didn't care either way. _'Of course I'd...like you to come too,'_ was his lame attempt to remedy that, but somehow it seemed to do the trick.

(Yes, that had been an..._interesting_ conversation.)

Still, at the end of the day, he was just grateful he'd been invited at all. He was quickly learning that there were two sides to the student populace at Ashford: those who resented him for the obvious reason, and those who didn't mind it. That there was even this second side at all came as a pleasant surprise, and he was glad to have met these people.

They entered a tunnel then, and he could see his darkened reflection against the dim blur of lights racing by. He saw L.L., too, and he was either staring at him or out the window as well – it was hard to tell. But when their eyes met through the glass the man looked away.

"So hey," Shirley's voice coaxed him back into the conversation. "It's too bad Nana couldn't come, huh?"

"It couldn't be helped," L.L. sighed. "Her exams begin in two days, after all. What surprises me, though, is that your other friend backed out at the very last minute – Nina, was it?"

"Ah, she..." Millay and Shirley exchanged uneasy glances. "Had a bit of an emergency to deal with."

L.L. frowned. "Right at the station?"

"Well, who knows?"

Suzaku knew her vaguely, Nina Einstein – shy and very quiet, she often wore her hair in braids and spoke timidly, only when she was called on. He didn't know much else about her besides these trifles, and while today he might have had the chance to change that, it seemed he was out of luck.

When the train emerged from the tunnel, however, all the tension in the car evaporated: the Settlement's familiar backdrop of buildings, radio towers and freeway street signs gave way to a stunning view of the mountainside, houses clustered at the base like tiny offshoots of the ground itself. The sudden change was really rather breathtaking: L.L. and Millay both ducked their heads and leaned in for a better look, while Shirley's eyes lit up in a way that put the sunlight – glittering off the side of the slope – to shame.

Bright, blue and cloudless – even the sky promised nothing but hope.

* * *

**.**

_This is a mirror image _

_Of everything I'm not_

_Always reflecting what I've learned but was not taught_

_If I could make things different _

_If I could press restart_

_Then I would hold back every breath that went too far_

**.**

**Bird's-Eye View**

Stage 07

**. : To the Wolves : .**

Kouzuki Naoto often spoke of the day his tiny resistance cell would finally be accepted into the ranks of the Japanese Liberation front, his eyes fervent and his voice sure. He conjured up so many possible ways for this dream to come true: an ambush at the Viceroy's Palace at 3 in the morning, perhaps, or a team of his men and _theirs_ infiltrating a Britannian research facility on the final hour of Christmas Eve. Or, a bloody siege at the Settlement border, guns blazing and shrapnel flying from dawn to twilight until the Japanese flag flew proudly again, a different kind of sunrise – the only kind that really mattered.

Such elaborate, romanticized fantasies those were, Kallen realized, although she'd shared every single one of them. And yet she never once imagined it would be like this: waiting alone at the side of the railroad tracks with the sun shining down, Lake Kawaguchi and its opulent hotel visible from a distance. She'd gotten off at the station just before the terminus, and there was barely even anyone here: only a smattering of civilians, old men sitting patiently on the benches, a girl typing relentlessly into her phone, a boy about her age weighted down by too many bags and staring intently at the transit map. She wondered if maybe there had been a mistake; maybe she'd read Ohgi's directions wrong, or maybe _he'd _switched the numbers around. Maybe she'd gotten the dates mixed up and wasn't supposed to be here for several more days.

Or maybe – Kallen felt a sudden, irrational pang of dread as the though crossed her mind – maybe, this whole thing was a trap for their group. It had seemed a bit too good to be true at the time, hadn't it? She clenched her jaw and slipped a hand into one of her pockets, feeling the outline of her purse-knife there – somehow, it made her feel a bit better.

But it was nothing compared to the relief she felt when she finally saw a van she vaguely recognized pulling up into a spot on the other side of the platform. Taking a deep breath, she skimmed the short flight of stairs and jogged briskly towards the vehicle, silently counting the silhouettes visible through the tint of the windows: the entire cell, present and accounted for. Nobody had died between now and the last time they saw each other. In a way, that was something of a victory in itself.

"Traffic," Ohgi said as she climbed in, an apologetic look on his face from the passenger's seat as Nagata began driving away. "Sorry about that."

"No, it's fine," she assured him. Almost as soon as she'd pulled the door shut, she was being handed an opaque visor and several ammunition clips from three different directions. She accepted each of the items with a nod of thanks. "I wasn't waiting that long."

"Are you sure no-one was following you?"

"Pretty sure."

"All right." Ohgi resumed staring out the window, and the grim tension reflected there somehow resembled the countenance of everyone else. It was not surprising at all, though; they all wanted very badly for this to go well, for so many reasons. If this operation was a success – premature, wishful thinking, she knew, but she couldn't help herself – if they were accepted formally into the JLF, she resolved to sever all ties with her stepmother, and likewise stop attending classes at Ashford. She would only feel sorry for the latter, she knew, but perhaps a part of her wouldn't mind even this, in the long run. "So far we're a bit behind schedule. I hope they aren't waiting for us."

"Is something wrong?" Kallen asked with a frown. She hoped she hadn't been the cause of the delay, although to be fair, she _had _been waiting at the station for quite a long time.

"Nope," Tamaki interjected before Ohgi could speak, "but we had to go back for this!" The man stuffed his hand into a roomy duffel bag that had been sitting at the very corner of the van, and then – despite vehement protests – nonchalantly withdrew its contents.

She swallowed and tried to suppress the jolt of fear; she didn't need to ask about the sealed cylinder (two feet long and maybe half across, metal and glass outside and a smoky green on the inside) to figure out what it was. "Why...why is that in here?" she blurted out.

Tamaki was laughing carelessly, showing off by juggling the tube from one hand to the next before Inoue yelled at him to quit it and Yoshida snapped, tackling him to the seat and wrestling the item away before anything tragically stupid could happen. "We took it from the warehouse this morning; that's partly why we couldn't get here any earlier," Ohgi explained. "The other four are still there, safe for now."

Kallen shook her head. "No, what I mean is, _why_ did you even bring it along? I don't think the JLF are going to appreciate this!"

Ohgi and Nagata exchanged glances at that, but it was the latter who responded, meeting her gaze through the rearview mirror: "Kallen, the JLF were the ones who asked us to bring it in the first place."

The full weight of that statement – and all of the implications it carried – didn't really sink in until Yoshida successfully recovered the tube, placing it gingerly back into the bag and then zipping the latter tightly shut. The JLF had _asked _them to bring some of the poison gas along? Was that all the group wanted from their cell then, and had that been all this joint operation was about all along? Kallen watched as the brown-haired man pushed the bag back to the corner, as far as it could go. Its presence unnerved him, clearly, and she realized maybe this was the real reason they were all on edge. It would certainly explain a lot.

They didn't speak anymore as the van entered the bridge, a long strip that crossed the lake and led to the hotel. Kallen watched the building as they drew closer, the sunlight bouncing off its windows and the tiny outlines of people milling about the perimeter, and tried her best not to feel sick.

* * *

During this point of the relocation, where they would still get stray shipments of parts and machines at odd times during the day, A.S.E.E.C.'s approximation of a lunch room was comically pitiful: the corner of the warehouse where a sink had been installed was enclosed by little more than strips of electrical tape placed across the floor. The two long tables were identical to the metal ones on which their engineers cut steel and etched circuit boards, and the seating was a collection of mismatched office chairs that no longer rolled or spun with ease. Someone (they'd drawn lots, because Lloyd insisted) brought a microwave that had seen better days.

But its current occupants were fixated on its last feature: the small television that was mounted on the upper wall.

"_I'm here in front of the Lake Kawaguchi Convention Center Hotel. The hotel-jackers have identified themselves as the Japan Liberation Front._" The reporter stood off to the side, and the hotel was clearly visible behind her, against still water and the noontime sky. "_Members of the Sakuradite Allocation Meeting, most notably Chairman James, were taken hostage, as well as several tourists and hotel employees._"

"Isn't that – ?"

"It is," Cécile cut in, already knowing where the question was headed. Fiddling nervously with a plastic fork, her other hand held her cell phone, by now rather warm against her ear. She heard a seventh ring...an eighth... _'The number you have dialed is either unattended, or out of – '_

She winced, ending the call. That had been her fourth attempt in the past two minutes. "It's no use. I can't get a hold of him at all."

"You know, I hate to point this out," Lloyd spoke through his fifth helping of pudding that day. "But if only you'd let that boy spend his day _here _instead of gallivanting around the Area surveying bodies of freshwater you wouldn't be in this predicament."

"Don't joke about this!"

"Not joking!" he replied to that, wide-eyed and without irony. The three other staff members in the area continued eating and watching, by now used to this display, so Cécile merely heaved an exasperated sigh and hit the 'redial' button.

"_This footage was taken by the perpetrators. In it, you can clearly see Chairman James, including some students – _"

She squinted at the small display as the ringing began again. To her dismay, though, the camera panned around the room too quickly to get a decent look at any of the hostages, especially given the awful lighting. "Did you see him?"

Lloyd, who was seated closed to the TV, merely hummed around the spoon still in his mouth. "Actually," he drawled, and the utensil bobbed up and down as he spoke, "I've come to notice that Warrant Officer Kururugi is very difficult to recognize when he isn't in uniform. Do you have that same problem, by any chance?" He took one look at his assistant's expression and balked. "Again, not joking!"

"_The leader of the group claims to be Lieutenant Colonel Kusakabe of the now defunct Japanese..._"

"Excuse me?" Their communications officer stood awkwardly outside the tape, having nowhere to knock. He held a standard headset in one hand, and was covering the microphone with the other. "Sorry to interrupt, but it's from the unit commander at the Second Line. He says it's urgent."

"It always is," Lloyd sighed. Beckoning the man over, he took the device from his hands and placed it over his head, adjusting the microphone to a suitable distance. He didn't even bother removing the spoon from his mouth. "Lloyd Asplund," he announced boredly.

Meanwhile, Cécile was hearing the same blasted recording yet another time. Biting back a sigh, she placed her phone onto the table and wondered what to do. The last she had heard from Suzaku was a text message he sent earlier that morning, thanking her again for granting him the day off and promising to bring back a souvenir. But that was four hours ago.

"_Sakuradite, an essential component in the manufacture of high-temperature superconductors, is a vital strategic resource that directly affects world security._" The reporter was still speaking, but she wasn't giving any more details that were really all that useful. "_Area 11 is the largest producer of this material, providing 70% of the world's total supply. Here at the yearly national meeting of sakuradite producers, it will be determined how this resource will be distributed among the world's nations._"

Cécile looked at her phone, tried to fight the urge for all of two seconds and gave up, dialing again. Lloyd had been chiding her for worrying too much ever since this story first broke, but she couldn't help herself. Once those terrorists found out he was in the military, he would be the first to – she shook her head furiously, refusing to finish that thought. Oh, if he would only _pick up..._

"_It's no exaggeration to say that the outcome determines the balance of global power between Britannia and other countries. It is believed that the terrorists are using world interest in the annual gathering to their advantage by carrying out this violent hotel takeover._"

"Ahahaha, yes, _yes_, I want to thank you for that _lovely _order!" The chair rattled noisily as Lloyd jumped to his feet, and he'd ripped off the headset by the time the others glanced his way. Tossing the device at the confused officer from before, the current head of the military's Advanced Special Envoy Engineering Corps let out a giddy laugh. "Why, this day just keeps getting better and better!"

"What happened?" Cécile inquired. She yelped when Lloyd merely zoomed past her, and she quickly gathered the remains of their lunches before stumbling to catch up. "Lloyd!"

"The Viceroy apparently wants every soldier with a pulse and a brain on standby at Lake Kawaguchi. Granted, that means our unit will be deployed as reserve forces by default, but regardless of _that_..." By now the scientist had jogged up the short flight of steps between them and the controls to the warehouse's P.A. system, and his voice flooded the area when he next spoke again. "Congratulations! Pack up everyone, pack up, pack _up_, we're going on a field trip!"

Cécile grabbed the microphone from her boss when he'd been doing little else but laugh gleefully into it for about five seconds. "What are you saying? We can't go into the field _now_; Suzaku is..." A.S.E.E.C.'s 'forces,' after all, really only consisted of the Lancelot, and with Suzaku absent they couldn't... She stopped herself, suddenly realizing: oh, no. Oh, he didn't. "You _lied _to them?"

"I resent that!" Lloyd looked genuinely insulted for the first second; after that, he just looked guilty, mumbling, "...The question of our devicer's precise whereabouts didn't exactly come up in the conversation."

"Our devicer is probably _one of the hostages!_" she cried.

"Well then, it's a good thing I told them he'd be meeting us on-site!" He just smiled broadly at her horrified expression, adjusting his glasses. "Come on, let's not pretend they would have given us the green-light otherwise. And this way, we'll be able to determine Warrant Officer Kururugi's safety ourselves, which is a prospect I _know _you find lucrative. We might even be able to set up a rendezvous with the boy before anyone finds out!"

Cécile frowned at that, and at the way Lloyd had just carelessly tossed around all these optimistic predictions without obviously believing any of them very much. She wanted to think Suzaku was all right – or, if he wasn't, that they could actually _do_ something to help him – but she decided she'd rather not give Lloyd's actions any more validation. "And if they find out first?" she pressed.

"Then we deal with the required disciplinary action. It won't be the first time." He shrugged, and then he grinned at her, plucking the leftover pudding from her hands. "Kindly prep the Lancelot's trailer, Miss Cécile. We leave in half an hour!"

* * *

In the midst of fifty or so other hostages, and surrounded by a squadron of armed rebels lining the walls of the room, Euphemia li Britannia wondered what in the world she was supposed to do.

She didn't have all that many options, she'd quickly realized. The longer she waited here, the more she placed herself in danger...although that could be said of any of them, really. She looked around. The slight elevation afforded by the wheelchair gave her a better view of her fellow hostages: there was an even mix of anger and terror among the sea of faces, and only a third of them seemed to belong to delegates of the Summit. The rest, she guessed with a sinking heart, were just tourists, some of them just as young as she was, caught in this mess. To a certain extent, they all were.

Euphy chewed on her lip and looked down as one of the rebels walked by. She had no idea what time it was; the room was dim and had no windows, and her wristwatch was among the many items confiscated when their captors first corralled them here. But it had to have been several hours since then.

This was what troubled her. Cornelia knew she was here, so was that why there was still no response? She desperately hoped it wasn't so.

The man passed without giving her a second glance, and she finally thought it safe to breathe again.

The only thing she had going for her was that at this point nobody – save for the two Special Agents kneeling on either side of her – knew who she was. Because it was more than likely that just about everyone in the Settlement had heard of the Third Princess breaking her leg by now, Cornelia had insisted on an elaborate disguise. And so she'd come to this place in a short blonde wig, thick-rimmed glasses framing eyes with blue contacts in place. Both her dress and wheelchair were plain even for commoners, and as if this weren't _enough_, her cast was covered with scribbled messages of _'Get well, Marie!'_ and the like. Nobody was going to recognize her, not in a million years.

Still, Euphy thought to herself as the minutes ticked by, all this didn't change the facts: that she _wasn't_ just a commoner, that she _could_ play this card, her only one, if she had to. Could she really, though? Or would Cornelia act before that happened? She realized she didn't know the answer to either of these.

So far, they were safe. But the men were agitated, and the collective anxiety was suffocating. Something had to give eventually.

It soon did, because in this thick, tense silence, the subtle vibrating of a cell phone may as well have been a fire alarm.

"Whose is that?" The men turned to the source in perfect sync, eyes narrowed and guns raised. The closest one stooped down and roughly grabbed the offending item, almost tearing out the arm of the girl trying desperately to silence it. "You little bitch! We told you to hand over all cell phones hours ago!"

"I'm – I'm sorry!" The girl, with long orange hair and frightened green eyes, shrank behind the man next to her. "I just – "

The rebel wasn't listening. He glared daggers at the display as it lit up and continued to buzz in his hand. "Who the hell is 'Nana'?" Then he turned to her angrily. "Who did you call?"

"No-one!" she cried. "I promise! She – !"

"You _dare _lie to me?"

"Stop it already." The man she was clinging to pushed her further behind him and met the rebel's eyes with a defiant violet gaze. "You have the phone now, so leave her alone."

"Why is it that you Britannian brats can't follow simple orders?" he snarled.

"We get it! We're sorry!" A young blonde beside the terrified girl (had all three of them come together?) protested with a similar rebellious streak. "We won't cause any more trouble."

"No, you've caused enough as it is." At a meaningful glance from one of his colleagues, he reached down and yanked on the girl's arm. "We're not taking any risks. You're coming with me!"

"No!"

"Shirley!"

It was nothing short of amazing, how the commotion that followed was localized only around the girl and her friends; everyone else kept his gaze low, away from the scene. It was appalling, and Euphy found herself inwardly fuming – why wasn't anyone _helping_?

And that was when she realized: they couldn't. Even if they did, there was probably very little they could do to change the outcome. And this was why...

She shut her eyes and shook her head as the screams grew louder. In her mind, she uttered a brief apology – to Cornelia, mostly – before firmly clasping the wheels at her sides.

A hand closing around the ankle of her good leg stopped her prematurely, as did its owner, one of the Special Agents, fixing her with a panicked look. 'Sub-Viceroy, _no_,' she mouthed, but Euphy merely looked away, taking a deep breath and opening her mouth to speak.

"That's enough!"

...Only, the voice that gave life to those words was not hers.

All heads in the room swiveled in unison as the boy who had spoken stood up. He was not much older than that girl, and had been sitting rather close to her too; the latter had been pushed away, forgotten, barely caught in time by the purple-eyed man from before.

With that one statement, he had the men's attention – as well as the aim of half a dozen assault rifles – all to himself.

"And just who the hell do you think you – ?" But the boy removed his sunglasses then, and the rebel choked on his demand. "You!"

"You know exactly who I am." She knew the boy was speaking to the rebels, but Euphy quickly realized, as she finally placed his features in this pitiful light, that she did as well. "Take me to your commander."

* * *

At the end of the day, they were not even needed. At the end of the day, there was nothing to do.

Perched precariously atop the leg of a kneeling, dormant Sutherland, Kallen suppressed a sigh as she flipped another page of her reading material, balanced on her knees. It was not how she'd expected to spend these past few hours. Right after they met one of the JLF's officers face-to-face, their cell had been ordered to split up according to whatever needed to be done. As such some of them were assigned to guard hostages, others to man posts on the rooftop or by the docks behind the hotel. And the rest of them who had still been standing there at that point – herself included – had been told on the spot to report to the tunnel.

It hadn't been so bad of an assignment back then, Kallen recalled idly. She, Sugiyama and Yoshida had come upon several Knightmares stationed at the very end of the tunnel before the main freight elevators, which was an exciting sight. The captain down here informed them they serve as the second line of defense if military forces launched an attack this way and the first line fell.

But the 'first line' turned out to be practically unbreakable, and it was not even a line at all: the Raikou, they called it, that massive linear cannon bolted several meters away, manned by no less than three of the JLF's own men. They'd watched as it was being set up, early in the morning, but it didn't seem all that impressive then.

It was much more impressive later on, when three Britannian Knightmares were vaporized in a flash of heat and blinding light, shockwaves humming through the tunnel's interior.

Still, formidable as it was, the Raikou was the reason she had been idle for so long, her other two companions reduced to talking about how one of them wanted to be a chef or some inane thing like that. She had no idea where Ohgi or anyone else was. The uniform they'd loaned her didn't quite fit; the smell of dust clung to the garments, and wearing it didn't quite make her feel like one of them yet.

But otherwise she wouldn't complain, she convinced herself, glancing back down at the book on her lap. This page was a series of elaborate sketches, with annotations in cursive along the margins, while the facing one continued a long, bulleted list from the page before. When they'd come here, she noticed that there were more than three Knightmares, and that not all of them were alike: the last one, tucked in a corner well behind a wall of identical purple Sutherlands, stood out in red and gold even in the dim light. Its head was oddly shaped, and there was a very pronounced, elaborate machinery along its right arm, ending in a claw crafted of metal with a sinister gleam.

_This _one, they called the Guren Mk-II, she'd been informed upon asking, and was brought here in anticipation of Colonel Tohdoh's participation in the operation. But the man had backed out for unstated reasons, and she felt as though she wouldn't have been told what they were even if she'd asked.

It was a shame, though. The strange Knightmare piqued her curiosity, and she would have loved to see it in action here. But for now, she would content herself with perusing its instruction manual, pilfered from a box behind its right leg when the men weren't looking, and pretend she hadn't hoped her day would turn out more glorious than _this._

_

* * *

_

He could feel their eyes on him from the way his skin prickled and seemed to want to burn.

Despite this, Suzaku kept his gaze stubbornly locked onto the numbers flashing above him, glowing red and climbing steadily. The elevator was a fast one, as expected for a lavish tourist haven like this, but perhaps it wasn't the only thing to blame for this sudden wave of nausea.

(He could tell because it only got worse once they reached the very top floor.)

'Kururugi,' he'd heard whispered among the soldiers, as well as other things the moment they left that room. He hadn't been thinking straight at all, he realized now – even as they were all forced into the storage room, he hadn't worried about being discovered, having registered as a group under 'Millay Ashford, plus three.' But then Nunnally had called, and that man had assaulted Shirley, and...

Idiot, he could almost hear L.L.'s voice in the back of his head: L.L., who had been the calmest of them all when the guns were raised, who had urged them to keep a low profile. L.L., whose eyes had gone wide with disbelief as he hissed that word from the floor. Then: 'What the hell do you think you're doing?' And when he refused to look at him: 'Are you _mad_?'

Maybe he was, he thought wanly, eyeing the set of double-doors looming before him, the only one in this hallway – the penthouse suite, perhaps. His escorts, six Japanese rebels in identical drab uniforms, hadn't even tied him up. They didn't have to.

The man in front of him knocked several times, announcing their arrival. "Lieutenant Colonel. We've brought him up."

And just like that, Suzaku suddenly became aware of the guns at the men's sides, the tight grip of the one holding his arm, the conflicted expressions they wore whenever they looked at him. And the fact that he was all alone, cut off from L.L. and everyone else, up here.

He really hadn't been thinking; at that time, he'd just wanted the man to lay off, wanted the madness to _end_. And yet –

"Enter," a gruff voice called out from within.

It was too late for that how, he convinced himself. As always, it seemed he would just have to make this all up as he went along.

The lounge was an exquisite arrangement of chocolate leather furniture, etched glass sculptures and a mix of Britannian and Japanese art, all of these under a roof lantern stretching from wall to opposite wall. Suzaku ducked and squinted by instinct, thinking it was still early afternoon, but the subdued light and its mild orange tinge proved him wrong. Evening was closing in. Had they been held that long?

"My word." It was not hard to spy the large man sitting in the middle of the sofa, leaning back with his legs crossed and his arms spread around its plush leather back. "It really is you."

Suzaku kept quiet at that. The man wore the same uniform as the rest of these rebels here, only lacking the hat and wearing in its place several pins above his breast pocket. He tried to find something in the man's stocky frame, sharp voice and glittering eyes that could jog his memory, but came up with nothing. How many soldiers had served under his father's administration? It was a hopeless cause.

"I'm Lieutenant Colonel Kusakabe," the man continued. It wasn't something he hadn't already heard anyway, from when the group had first broadcast its demands to the media. Still, a single nod was all it took for the soldier holding him to release his death-grip, and Suzaku rubbed at his arm gratefully. His host smiled – an unsettling sight, a tad too reminiscent of a wild dog showing its fangs – and motioned for him to have a seat. "Please."

The soldier did as he was told, easing himself slowly into the loveseat opposite the sofa. A radio communicator sat on the coffee table between them, producing a steady hiss of soft static that buffered the silence; next to it, a cell phone with its screen dormant and dark. A _katana _stood off to the side, propped up between the floor and the edge of the sofa, easily within the man's reach. The fireplace was dead.

"You'll have to excuse us for being suspicious. When my men told me that..." Kusakabe stopped, catching himself with a hearty laugh. "How presumptuous of me; you still do speak Japanese, don't you?"

"That's not something you can ever really forget," Suzaku finally spoke, switching to their native tongue as well.

"Well, it was just to be sure. Heaven knows what they made you do to become an Honorary Britannian..." He smiled that smile again. "Would you care for some tea?"

"No, thank you."

"So distrustful." Kusakabe clicked his tongue, shook his head, and waved one of his men over. They exchanged a few words, and the man promptly disappeared into an adjacent room. Kusakabe himself didn't speak again until he'd reappeared, carrying with him a tray containing two mugs of steaming green tea. "Kururugi Suzaku. My, how you've grown. You look so much like your mother now."

When it hurt to swallow, Suzaku had to remind himself that the pain was all in his head. He stared at the wisps rising up from the cups, as they danced and vanished. "I wouldn't know."

"Ah, of course. Forgive me." Kusakabe lifted up one of the mugs, blew away some of the rising steam and took a slow, indulgent sip. He seemed entirely too pleased with himself. "Forgive as well, if you can, the inconvenience we must have caused. If we had seen your name on the guest list, something could have been done. Perhaps my men missed it?"

"It isn't there."

"I'd imagined as much." He chuckled, a low rumbling sound that was just as unsettling as his smile had been. "Well then. The day is ending and our demands have yet to be acknowledged, much less answered. Time is ours as we wait for a response." He placed the mug back onto its tray before straightening up and directly meeting the boy's gaze. "What can I do for you?"

"I...I beg your pardon?"

The boisterous laugh that followed filled the living room. Perhaps it did so out of necessity, considering how all the other terrorists here remained at attention, hands on their rifles and faces perfectly blank. "If I recall correctly, my men say you were the one who asked – no, _demanded_ – to be brought to me. So now, here we are."

Suzaku met his stare, and he tried to show as little emotion as possible. How was he going to reply to that, though, when he'd come up here without even a half-baked plan to speak of? He'd already known he would have to wing it from the time he stood up and revealed himself, but he'd been too busy trying to keep himself calm and deflect this man's pointed questions that he hadn't had the opportunity to really figure out where he was going with this. At this rate, unless he thought of an answer that was both useful _and _convincing soon, he would have to stall for time...

He blinked. _That was it._ There had to have been a reason the JLF still respected the old military hierarchy; if Kusakabe was leading this operation, then the rest of the men were all technically under him, even the ones guarding the hostages. They probably wouldn't do anything drastic without his approval first, so until he gave such an order, the hostages would be safe.

This last thought cleared away some of the tension, leaving in its place a slowly-growing resolve: if he was trapped up here, then the best he could do was to keep this man busy for as long as he could, buying the hostages as much time as possible.

"Kusakabe-san, I have to ask..." He told himself he didn't have to address the man by his rank; he wasn't with the JLF, and he certainly wasn't Kusakabe's subordinate. "What exactly are you hoping to accomplish with this..." He realized he wasn't sure what to call it. "This...?"

"It's very simple really." Kusakabe cut in before he could find the word he was looking for. He spoke matter-of-factly, although his tone was far more serious and business-like now than it had been before. "This is all to gain _attention_. I want this country, as well as the rest of the world, to know that the Japanese aren't dead yet."

"By holding all of these people hostage?" He remembered L.L. and Shirley and Millay, elderly patrons and little children among the crowd of hostages; he seemed to recall one of them in a wheelchair as well. Anger flared inside him. "They're innocent civilians...some of them are even just _tourists!_ They've done nothing to deserve this."

"That doesn't matter anymore. Like I said earlier: those people are still Britannians. They are still the ones who oppress us, even if they aren't soldiers." Kusakabe stalled at that last word, and seemed to dwell on it for a few seconds longer than necessary. Then he looked up again, and his expression suddenly darkened. "Although, come to think of it..."

It was barely there, but it was _there_: the slightest quiver of his right hand, as though he were about to reach for his sword.

"..._You_ enlisted to join the Britannian military, didn't you?"

Somehow, the urge to say 'yes' and end this lingered in the back of his head, a half-formed, primal suggestion that was disturbingly easy to rationalize: they were going to find out sooner or later, so why _not _make the first move? He saw the sword without really looking at it, and although it was further away from him, he was probably faster; he could take down Kusakabe and one other man, maybe two if he was lucky, before the rest of these rebels caught on and gunned him down. And maybe...

He clenched his jaw and squashed away the rest of that thought through sheer force of will. No, _that _wasn't an option, not when he had to buy his friends and all those people more _time_.

"Back then..." He spoke in a low voice. "I didn't have a choice."

"That's a shame." Kusakabe's hand relaxed once more, an encouraging sight. As long as he kept this man talking... "But I suppose it couldn't be avoided. I understand your father's suicide left you with no other options."

The carefree statement felt like a sucker punch to the gut.

"I have a question for you, Kururugi Suzaku." The large man braced his hands on his knees and stood up with little else by way of warning. Green eyes watched him warily as he circled the couch at a leisurely pace. "Do you love Japan?"

The boy's reply was immediate. "Of course."

"Then..." When Kusakabe finally ceased walking – in front of the wide glass window which met the skylights seamlessly – he already knew what he was going to say. "Won't you join us?"

Suzaku stared at his hands, now balled into tight fists atop his lap. He could feel the rest of the men in the room staring at him once more, although no-one else moved. Was this what it had really been about all along? He wondered if he was worth anything to them by himself, or if it was the name 'Kururugi' they wanted to capitalize on.

(Either way, they would end up terribly disappointed.)

"Our people have been waiting, _suffering_, for far too long. What those terrorists accomplished at Shinjuku just recently is proof that Japan is not afraid to fight once again." Kusakabe paused, a thoughtful look on his face reflected and eclipsed from the glass pane. "Perhaps she never was."

Maybe that was true, Suzaku thought to himself. Still, that didn't make those terrorists' actions in Shinjuku – or the JLF's actions _here –_ excusable. Putting so many innocent lives in danger was reprehensible, no matter what the possible results might be. Any ends achieved through despicable means would be meaningless, and he was –

"Would that your father thought the same."

– so certain of this because, in a way, he knew this better than anyone. "Are you saying what my father did was wrong?" he asked tightly, finally rejoining the conversation.

"That's such an unforgiving word. While I'm certain his intentions were noble, I do believe the choice he made was..._premature._" He could hear the scowl in his voice. "He should have had more faith in his people."

"Maybe he just wanted to protect them!" Suzaku had jumped to his feet, and every functioning assault rifle in the room was now trained onto his form, but he didn't care. He hoped the hoarse, desperate tone he'd heard was simply a figment of his imagination. "Maybe he didn't think it was worth the risk!"

"And yet we will never know." Kusakabe was eerily calm when he turned around, and he coaxed his men to drop their aim with an insistent wave. "But I am a generous man, Suzaku-kun. I'm willing to give you a chance to make things right: _join _us. Whether the Prime Minister was right or wrong, that was seven years ago. It's been long enough."

The pause that followed was much longer than it probably should have been.

"Why?" When he finally broke it, his voice was quiet and low. "I'm a Britannian soldier now. I'm technically your enemy, so why...why are you even offering me this?"

"Because that misfortune was written by your father's hand." Kusakabe smiled and laughed as though this were the simplest thing in the world. "And like I just said, I am a generous man. I do not believe in holding a son accountable for the sins of his father."

He did _not_ want to have this conversation. "My father was a good man."

"He was a _great_ man. That was never in question." The man nodded, conceding the point graciously. "But seven years is seven years. What do you say?"

Tearing his gaze away, Suzaku swallowed and unfisted his hands, but he didn't sit down. What was being asked of him was really rather sickening, on all levels imaginable. But he reminded himself again that he had to stall for time. "What...would you have me do?"

Kusakabe smiled widely at that. "General Katase is going to be very pleased when he hears you've decided to join our cause."

"I didn't say that. Not yet," he added belatedly, before asking again: "What would you have me do?"

"It shouldn't be too hard to figure out. As a Britannian soldier, you are privy to a wealth of information that would certainly be useful for our cause." Kusakabe's eyes gleamed with excitement, as though he could already see it now, and he talked rapidly. "As it is now, our intelligence allows us to stay one or two steps ahead of capture. But if we have someone on the inside..." He trailed off meaningfully.

"But I'm just a..." Suzaku caught himself about to say the word 'Private,' something of instinct ingrained into him after too many years of holding that rank with no foreseeable hope of changing it back then. He decided he wasn't going to even mention A.S.E.E.C. or the Lancelot at all. "I'm not worth much, to them," he said instead. "I don't have access to much of anything at all. You need to find someone higher up."

"That may be so, but still, it would be foolish to discount the usefulness of your position completely." He chuckled, glancing at his men. "They never suspect the lowly foot soldier, isn't that right? All the more to make you a better spy."

"And if I'm caught?"

"Unlikely, but you will have our support. Although you would be a traitor to the Britannians, to the Japanese you would be hailed as a hero." He waited a few short, measured seconds, before closing with this: "Just like your father."

_Hero._

He imagined his father then, with his narrowed eyes and heavy hands, an unlit pipe sometimes spearing his scowl. He remembered the soldiers standing in perfect rank and file, with the sun behind them as they saluted, and the sun still behind them as they returned, every day dwindling in number. Kururugi Genbu had had legions of men ready to fight at his command, and they were legions of men he'd sent to die.

What difference did it really make, in the grand scheme of things? 'Join us,' the current leader of these rebels had said, but he could almost hear the distant echo, far more sinister and frightening: _join me_. He couldn't look at his hands, which was ironic because years ago, he'd stared desperately at them the whole time, as he'd – _I've been waiting._

(No. Now was _not_ the time for this!)

"Well?" Kusakabe prodded. "How about it, Suzaku-kun?"

The boy took a deep breath, fighting back a chill that was stubbornly crawling along his spine. Could he try to bargain for the lives of the hostages? He doubted he was worth _that _much – no, not with politicians and nobles in that crowd. If he did join the rebels, just to placate their leader and wait for a chance to return to the military...a double-betrayal, he thought grimly; whether he screwed it up or not he was damned either way.

He looked around, meeting the stares of the terrorists who were all waiting for his reply.

And it was strange, because at that moment, he suddenly imagined L.L. standing there, shaking his head in that patronizing, maddening way: _"Your logic is so strange_," he'd be saying again.

He slowly broke into a smile as it dawned on him. "I'd be honored, truly..." (That the choice had never been his to begin with, that there was still one more thing he could do, and that at the end of the day, it just _didn't matter _because – ) "But I'm afraid I'm going to have to refuse."

"What – ?"

The first step was (always) the hardest one, but the moment he lunged for the cellphone, something – perhaps, the dismal faraway sound of all other doors of opportunity slamming shut – made the rest of it easier. Suzaku slid his leg under the table, kicking it up sharply while closing his other hand over the sheath of the _katana_ near the couch. Wood, porcelain, and Kusakabe's own radio took the first spray of bullets for him, buying him just enough time; when he finally crashed through what remained of the table, he'd already drawn the sword, and in several quick slashes had the men's assault rifles in pieces in their hands.

He didn't have time to even consider disabling the rest of them, as the other soldiers further into the suite had begun to close in. Suzaku spun around and leapt over the chair, swinging the blade behind him, ducking low for a split second as Kusakabe released a string of loud curses to his men. The moment a bullet shattered the window he took his chance, dashing forward without looking back. In a flash his foot was braced against the glass-riddled ledge, and then against nothing.

Free-fall from thirty storeys, Suzaku realized, wasn't quite as terrifying as he imagined it would be. There was that one awful, drawn-out moment where nothing really seemed to be happening, as though he were suspended in limbo and would be shredded by bullets at any time. And then that moment quickly passed, and he found himself falling. His heart lurching in his throat, the wind roaring in his ears –

_(Would it hurt if he hit the water from this high up?)_

– Suzaku grit his teeth and tossed the _katana_ away along with that errant thought, catching the first ledge he could with one of his hands now free. The action threatened to tear his arm off, but it stopped the fall. He watched the sword as it followed the glass shards down, landing harmlessly in the lake, too far away for him to see the splashes. Hoisting himself up onto the ledge by his hand, then by his arms, was actually much harder.

By the time he finished, he was standing on the ledge that was slightly narrower than his own feet, his back pressed against the glass of this new window, five or so storeys down. Wind whipped through his hair and the ends of his jacket, and Suzaku squinted and sucked in a staggered breath before swearing out loud. "Shit. Oh, _shit_."

He didn't really have to dodge anything when the blind shooting from above began ("I don't care if reporters might see it, I want that goddamned brat _dead_!" Kusakabe was raging), because it was impossible to aim from that angle, and also because the first bullet already broke the window. Suzaku shut his eyes and allowed himself to fall back, crossing his arms in front of his face as shrapnel rained down. He landed on his shoulder, limbs awkwardly twisted in linen as he clumsily brought the curtains down with him. Glass littered the floor around the window.

Suzaku hissed in pain as he moved off to the side, clear of any more bullets' path; he didn't seem to have any inside of him, which he was grateful for as he surveyed the damage. The material of his jacket and jeans had been thick enough to block off most of the glass, but he'd still been left with a couple of gashes – one across his stomach, an angry red peeking through the jagged tear in his shirt, and another one he couldn't see on the side of his neck. He felt gingerly at it with his free hand, wondering if it had hit anything important; his fingers came away red, but not as drenched as he'd feared, so maybe he was okay.

He imagined L.L. was going to have many choice words for him about this when they next saw each other.

There was something odd, though; as he'd fallen, a part of him had almost thought he'd seen... Pushing himself off the floor, Suzaku waited until the shooting from above had stopped before daring to peek out from the bottom corner of the window. It was hard to see from here; the lake was rather large, but there in the distance – he squinted. There: those things that seemed to be lining the perimeter, what _were _those?

By the time he realized what they were – _Knightmares – _he remembered that the fact that Kusakabe's men had stopped shooting meant he was very quickly running out of time. Swearing to himself, he pulled the steel curtain rod through the rings sewn along the top edge of the curtain, leaving the latter behind. By the time he reached the door and was about to exit the empty suite, he'd already flipped open the phone in his other hand, and dialed the only useful number he'd come to know by heart.

"Miss Cécile!" He pulled open the door and rushed into the hallway. "I need your help."

* * *

By this time the tension in the room had reached a plateau, although this was probably good news only by the furthest possible stretch of imagination. The rest of the hostages no longer sat as though paranoid, one tiny shift promising chaos; most of them were now slumped against the walls, or with their heads hanging low, staring listlessly at the floor or at each other. The rebels continued their mindless pacing, an assault rifle to each pair of hands, but otherwise everything else had reached a precarious sort of equilibrium.

L.L. stared at his fingers, wishing he had something to occupy them with. This idleness wouldn't have been so maddening had there only been an end to it in sight, but such was not the case.

In the hours that had passed, though, the very beginnings of _something_ began to form in his mind: the layout of their prison (they were in a utility room of sorts – food storage, it seemed), the head-count, the weapons and apparent sentiments of the men guarding them. Frustratingly, though, it was never quite able to grow anything past that, a muddled stew of facts and observations and maybe-plausible, maybe-_not_ assessments of their predicament – partly because there were too many unknowns. But it was mostly because: just when it seemed he had finally come up with something useful, Suzaku broke his silence and revealed his presence to their captors. _That goddamn idiot._

He sighed, leaning back and watching the rows of boxes and shelving. While he had to admit it was noble of the boy to sacrifice himself for Shirley's sake, that didn't make the action any less stupid. It had tossed an entirely unwelcome set of complications into his already-flimsy plan as it was, and now he had to deal with _those _as well as –

The sudden wailing of a young child was, for the first time, a welcome distraction.

L.L. glanced at the commotion while the rebels glared and hovered over the frantic mother. Whether he meant it or not, whether he _liked _it or not, Suzaku had unwittingly made things so much more difficult for him than they already were, and that was saying something.

"What were you thinking?" Millay spoke in a barely audible whisper, taking advantage of the momentary chaos on the other side of the room. The tone of her query was not one of anger though, not even of shock – only a resigned, helpless curiosity. "Did you really expect to get away with it? They almost..." she trailed off, and something twisted in her face.

"I'm sorry." Shirley sat with her arms locked around her knees, hugging them to her chest. Although her eyes were dry, her voice was thick and quavered ever so slightly. "It's just...I was just thinking about Papa. He was supposed to...we were supposed to watch a play tonight. He was going to pick me up. I thought..." Her grasp left imprints of her fingertips on the skin of her legs. "I thought that...that I could warn him, maybe? I don't know."

L.L. found himself staring at her, something indescribable washing over him like a wave. He'd always pegged Shirley as one who loved generously, boundlessly, just from observing the way she interacted with Millay and Nunnally. But he'd never given a thought as to the lengths she was capable of taking for those she cared about; was it possible that this girl, so unassumingly sweet and sometimes rather shallow at first glance, would throw caution to the wind so easily for someone she held dear? Admirable, he supposed, but at the same time sobering; if he was right, he imagined this might cause problems for her, and the people around her, in the future.

He acknowledged, though, that this was the _worst_ possible time to be dwelling on such matters. "You'd been in contact with Mr. Fenette that entire time?" he joined in, careful to mimic Millay's hushed tone.

Shirley shook her head. "I was just going to send him a text message, but I wanted to wait until they weren't looking. But then..."

"But then Nunnally called," Millay finished, a pained sadness in her eyes. There was that, too. Had this all been broadcast over the news, prompting a worried Nunnally to attempt contacting her sister, and then Shirley when the former wouldn't pick up? Or had the media ordered a blackout, meaning the call was just a friendly, whimsical gesture? Both scenarios were equally likely, L.L. concluded, and he had no way of knowing which one it was. There were so many variables to this situation, and he _hated _it.

"And now Suzaku's gone." Shirley raised her head, eyes wide, and the sudden panic in her voice threatened to rise above the distant cries and undo them all. "They took him and it's all my fault! What are they going to do to him? Do you think they – ?"

"I don't think they'll hurt him." L.L. was quick to calm her down, although he wasn't as sure as he sounded. What would the JLF, indeed, make of Prime Minister Kururugi's son suddenly showing up in the middle of an operation? Surely these soldiers had to have been loyal to Genbu, and would extend some respect to Suzaku in turn, but did that reverence still hold after his suicide? Did they know Suzaku was in the military, and would they view him as a traitor? Again, too many variables, too many possibilities, each of them requiring a different course of action.

"Because he's an – " Millay caught sight of the rebels yelling at the child, adding to his distress, and caught herself mid-sentence. "Because he's Japanese?" she amended. "But what was it he said, though: that they 'knew who he was'? I don't understand that."

"I don't know. Maybe someone in his family is a benefactor? That might be his bargaining chip." It was so easy to lie like this. Millay would forgive him, he convinced himself; he would have done the same for Nunnally in a heartbeat, after all, except that Nunnally probably wouldn't be as reckless and short-sighted as Suzaku; why, again, had he gone up there? Had the boy thought this through _at all_?

"Either way," the blonde murmured, trailing her eyes to the ceiling. "I hope he's all right."

L.L. didn't know which was stranger: that every last fiber of his being hoped so as well, or that even now, he still found himself wondering why (if?) he cared so much.

But Suzaku wasn't the only one he needed to worry about, no. Eventually, there would be no reason to keep the hostages alive.

If the boy's recklessness led to anything good, it would have to be the fact that his departure actually thinned the ranks of the terrorists guarding them here. Perhaps most of those men were eager to see for themselves what their leader would make of their very willing prisoner, and on a certain level he couldn't blame them. Either way, there were much fewer terrorists guarding them now than before – five, to be precise, but he doubted he could take on all of them. Granted, there was a small chance he _could _pull this off, but if he wanted better odds he had to wait a bit more.

He didn't have to wait for very long. In about twenty minutes the heavy door slid open, and another terrorist walked inside. The man seemed angry, and brandished his assault rifle with a scowl. "We have our orders now," he announced, signaling to some of his comrades in the room. And when he pointed the rifle at one of the Summit members crouched near the entrance, L.L. realized sullenly that his earlier prediction had been correct. "We're not waiting any longer. You're coming with us!"

The struggle that followed was not as chaotic as he expected it would be, although it did involve shouting and tears, and more blows from a rifle butt than should have been necessary. At the end of the ordeal, the hostage was led forcefully out of the room by the first man and two more, leaving only three behind.

L.L. closed his eyes and sighed heavily, counting out the seconds in his head as the door hissed shut and plunged the interior once more into darkness. There was a woman sobbing on the other side of the room, and there were several others trying not to. He regretted that he had to wait, that he had to watch that civilian being marched off to his death, but if he'd acted before that and failed– or, if he'd volunteered himself to die instead – he would have accomplished nothing for the rest of the hostages here. Now, though, he had a fighting chance. Now, at least...

"No, no, no, _no_!" Millay was hissing, and clutching at his leg with her nails digging into the denim, but by this time he'd already risen to his feet. It was too late to even acknowledge that properly.

"Animals, the whole lot of you," he began in a loud voice. "Britannia doesn't yield to your petty threats, and so you decide to punish her _civilians_?"

The first two bristled at that, but it was the third one – the loud one, he recognized belatedly, from Shinjuku – who actually took the bait. "What's that, Brit shit?"

L.L. narrowed his eyes. He could see, in his peripheral vision, some of the other hostages looking away, mothers fearfully shielding their children. They all knew this was about to get ugly, and he was sorry for that; he didn't dare look back at Millay or Shirley again. "You heard me the first time," he replied crisply. "Taking your anger out on innocent people because you don't stand a chance against the military? What are you trying to prove?"

That must have hit a nerve, and surprisingly quickly too, because in less than two seconds the man had shot to his feet, disengaging the safety catch on his assault rifle. "I'll kill you – !"

"Tamaki!" The longhaired man's warning floated above the sudden shrieks and cries that filled the room, coupled with the sight of hostages literally shrinking away at the ominous sound. "We don't have orders for that!"

"I don't give a shit! He has no right – !"

"I have the right to say whatever I want," L.L. cut in. His words rang heavily in the air as he advanced, although truth be told the entire time, what he was saying was just an afterthought – his mind was mostly on the position of the gun, how many hostages were still in front of him, the rapidly shrinking distance between himself and the livid, loudmouthed terrorist. "You storm a tourist destination on a weekend and hold women and children hostage before the world. What now? Is this how you make your statement? You think this will buy you respect?"

Tamaki snarled and whipped the rifle up in front of him. "Stop right there!"

"_No._" He said this firmly because by now, he was well outside the cluster of huddled, frightened civilians, and only several paces away from the man himself. If he'd calculated this correctly, then... "You're all spineless and pathetic, and you make me sick. _You _will be the ones to free Japan? Don't make me laugh."

L.L. wasn't sure which came first – the enraged, wordless roar, or the close-up view of the barrel of an assault rifle in his face. The screaming behind him came a split-second after that, when he'd already shot out an arm and closed a hand around the man's wrist. He yanked down with as much strength as he could in that frame of time, and, since it wasn't enough, (_bang!_) bit back a cry as he took the bullet in his shoulder, point-blank.

(But by now he had already thought of walking, emaciated corpses, of children that filled the universe with their solemn chanting, all against the steady _tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock_ of a clock with no hands – )

L.L. hit the floor even before Tamaki's bloodcurdling scream filled the tiny room, and although it was partly because of the pain, he knew that all his conditions had been cleared. Because even as the man began firing blindly, his aim was still tilted _up_; all of the hostages – save for one in a wheelchair, but he'd made sure she was well out of range – were close to the floor, so if he recalled correctly –

"_Nagata!_"

The lone female rebel shrieked as bullet wounds peppered her other comrade's chest. Ignoring the pain in his shoulder (_don't look, Millay, Shirley,_ he silently implored), he grasped Tamaki's elbow and projected another set of shock images, stronger this time, so that he could grab his rifle when the man fell.

And he had it aimed between the woman's eyes just as she picked up hers.

"Drop it." It was a simple command, albeit slightly strained because of the pain. "I won't ask twice."

She did so, albeit with some reluctance.

"Kick it this way," he pressed on, and when she'd done that, he added, "Your radio, too."

By the time he had the radio clipped to his belt and both assault rifles in his hands, he could already feel the wound in his shoulder beginning to heal. Tamaki was a catatonic mess sprawled on the floor, but it was the other rebel, the dying one, that the woman rushed to as soon as he shifted his aim.

And as he looked around at the mixed expressions on the faces of the hostages who looked up at him (with awe, with gratitude, with terror) he briefly wondered if he could lead them all out, if such an exodus were actually possible. But with no idea how many terrorists were part of this operation, nor where they were stationed, he quickly realized it was foolish to even hope. Then, the next best thing would be... "Stay here," he said in a low voice, "and don't do anything rash." _Shirley, _he wanted to add especially, although he was talking to all of them, really, and still didn't look her way. "I'll try to get help."

L.L. exited the storage room without another word, blinking back the harsh light in the hallway as he looked around: there wasn't a single terrorist in sight, but that (he whirled around when the door hissed shut behind him, shredding the electronic panel beside it with bullets until the diode glowed red, then died completely) was about to change.

"God _damn _it, Suzaku," he finally muttered, plucking out the bullet all the way as it was finally forced out of his shoulder.

(Now came the hard part.)

* * *

Elsewhere, a twenty-foot container vehicle very nearly caused a disaster on the freeway as it made a sharp merge into the outermost lane.

Amid the squeal of tires and the frantic honks from other cars that had barely stopped or swerved in time, its driver, a bespectacled young man with a distinctive scar across his face, actually laughed. "Can't say I wasn't asking for it," he shrugged helplessly at the stony glare he received from the stern woman seated on the other side. "But it can't be helped. We're in a hurry after all, eh, Colonel?"

The third man, sitting between them, seemed unperturbed by their brush with death and the trouble they'd caused, merely answering with a grave nod. "How soon can we be there?"

"At the rate we're going? Probably a couple of hours if I stay under the limit. But otherwise – "

"Don't push it, Asahina," the woman scolded crossly. "You're going to get us _killed_."

"I wouldn't dream of it." He smiled as the truck accelerated steadily in its lane. "But you realize there will probably be roadblocks and all sorts of detours once we get there, right? If anything, we've probably already missed out before we even get there."

A crackling burst of static cut the conversation short, and the two remained silent the whole time as the colonel spoke into his radio. "Thank you," he acknowledged as they heard the familiar report from one of their collaborators. "I'm aware this is on short notice. ...Yes, I need you to get access to the hotel's network. Find out where they keep their records, and pull up the resort's guest list for today. I've already told you what to look for. ...Let me know what you find."

With that, Kyoshiro Tohdoh, the legendary one from Itsukushima, handed the radio back to the woman and resumed brooding at the windshield.

There was no question in his mind that this move by Kusakabe was a blunder that couldn't possibly end well. Hearing that the man had gone ahead despite his warnings – and over the _news_, no less – brought to him more shame than anger; even General Katase agreed. And he hadn't planned on going to Lake Kawaguchi himself (because if he helped them, that foolish man and those who had followed him blindly wouldn't learn _anything_) but learning of a truly bizarre development left him with no choice: one of the hostages – a young Eleven who had yet to be identified, he'd heard from the reports – had surrendered himself to the terrorists. It was frustrating how the commentators were less interested in who he was than _why_ an Eleven would be travelling with a Britannian tourist group in the first place, but that wasn't his concern. That wasn't why he'd changed his mind.

Tohdoh glanced at the clock above the dashboard and narrowed his eyes as they exited Narita proper. That boy – it was a long shot, but it seemed to fit – could it be _him?_ And if so...

* * *

With much difficulty, Suzaku clipped the phone to his ear as he dashed across the hallway. He'd finally been able to make contact with A.S.E.E.C., and while Cécile was immensely relieved to learn he was still alive, he was also rather surprised at how comforting it was to finally hear a familiar voice again.

Given his situation, though, that was probably as much as he was going to get. "What's your current status?"

"I'm alone, but Kusakabe probably has men coming after me." He paused behind a corner, glancing around. This part of the hallway seemed empty as well, but he kept his grip on the curtain rod tight as he proceeded. "I'm trying to get back to the hostages."

"Are you hurt?"

He smiled a little, to himself; Cécile hadn't even bothered to hide the concern in her voice, which kind of made lying to her all the more terrible: "I'm okay. Can you tell me which floor the hostages are on? I couldn't tell when I left."

"Mmm, I don't think you'd want to go back there just yet." The new, lazy drawl, just as familiar, informed that Lloyd was there as well, and that he was probably on some sort of speaker phone. "If you're right, and you _do_ have men on your tail, the last thing you'd want to do is lead them right there. On that note, what floor are _you _on?"

"But the hostages – "

"Will be safe for the time-being." He was about to protest, _vehemently_, but Cécile spoke before he could get the chance: "It hasn't been confirmed, but we have reports that the circuitry controlling the door to the storage room was just recently compromised."

Suzaku blinked. "But that means..."

"Oh yes! The hostages have been locked _in, _aha!" He hoped he wasn't hearing the sound of Lloyd actually clapping his hands in the background. "Anyway, our intelligence _swears _the JLF don't currently have any of the more sophisticated explosives that can blow down the door and _not _take a good chunk of ceiling with it, so we're banking on that."

He stopped in his tracks as he heard footsteps from an adjoining hallway; within seconds, two uniformed terrorists appeared, seemingly patrolling the floor. A couple of swift strikes at the wrists disarmed the men before they could shoot, and two more – a clothesline across the gut, a solid blow from the recoil to the back of the other's head – left them unconscious on the floor. "Couldn't they just shoot it down?" he asked, pressing forward.

"_That _alloy? They'll be at it for hours." If Lloyd was aware of the recent scuffle from his end of the line, he showed no sign of it. "It doesn't matter, though. At least for the time being, Britannia's precious hostages are safe."

"Princess Cornelia has already given a preliminary order to mobilize," Cécile chimed in then, "so we have to get you out of the danger zone."

Princess Cornelia was leading the attack? He wasn't sure what to make of that. "What's the danger zone?"

"Every square inch of hotel that _isn't _part of the storage room, aha!"

Lovely. "Wait, A.S.E.E.C. is here too?"

"Of course! And the Lancelot as well, we wouldn't miss this party for the world!" The scientist laughed heartily. "Now, correct me if I'm wrong, Warrant Officer Kururugi, but I believe I asked you a question?"

"Oh...right!" Something about the whole situation still didn't seem right to him – it was just _odd_, plain and simple, and he felt as though there were something that didn't quite fit – but he decided he didn't have the luxury of wondering about it at this time. "I'm on the 26th floor," he said, noting the numbers on the doors as he passed them by.

There was a long pause at that, followed by some muttering in the background during which Suzaku crept up behind and quickly dispatched a trio of rebels lining the entrance to another branch of the hallway. If going to where L.L. and the others were only meant endangering them, then the least he had to do was get out of this building somehow. If he could just get to the elevators...

"Ah, a bit of a problem," Lloyd spoke into the phone as he leapt over the bodies. "Simply put, we can't quite see you."

"What?"

"Mmm, yes, what a quandary. Can you somehow get to the North side of – ?"

"Wait, no!" he heard Cécile protest. "If he doesn't stay in one place, he'll be more likely to encounter enemies!"

"I could have sworn there was a diffusion problem like this somewhere..." Lloyd muttered in the background.

"What?" he said again, louder this time.

"Suzaku." Cécile seemed to have calmed down a bit since he first got in touch with her, but her voice was no less earnest now than it had been then. "We can only delay the troops here for so long; you have to evacuate the hotel before Princess Cornelia leads the charge."

"Right." That was what he'd thought, after all.

"For that, we need you to hold your current position."

Suzaku stopped running immediately; the part of him that had been trained to follow orders first was so efficient at it by now that the absurdity of the request didn't register until seconds later. "Then...how am I supposed to leave?"

"We'll aid you. But we have to know your precise location. Can you give us a better idea which part of the building you're in right now?"

"I'm..." He looked around, and felt terribly vulnerable standing in the middle of the hallway. More numbered doors graced the long wall on one side of the corridor, but he supposed this wouldn't be very helpful to them. "I don't – "

"There's a bridge running from the base of the hotel to land," Lloyd cut in. "Do you see that from where you are?"

Suzaku squinted; he _remembered_ that bridge, but right now he couldn't... "No. No, I don't."

"...You _are_ beside a window, right?"

The entire length of the corridor facing the doors was lined with windows, and he told them that.

"Excellent! What do you see?"

"Um..." There really wasn't all that much to say; he saw the water below, Knightmares and the beginning of a forest on the other side. He had no idea which way was North, or why any of this was even important; this was _frustrating_. He was too far from the elevators, and this whole floor so far had been monotonous; the only 'landmarks' near him that he could provide were within the hotel, a measly row of doors and a housekeeping cart at the very end, several potted plants and a couple of chairs –

Suzaku blinked, and glanced at the window...before glancing at the chairs again, and then back. If A.S.E.E.C. was _here_... "Wait! I'm going to give you a signal." Setting the curtain rod flat against the floor, he jogged quickly to the small conversation nook at the corner of the hallway, where the chairs and a small table sat just before a stairwell. "Please watch for it!"

"Warrant Officer Kururugi," Lloyd somehow managed to sound both annoyed and amused at the same time. "If you think we're going to see you waving from a window, you're _already_ presupposing that our location is somehow – "

But by this time he'd already grabbed one of the chairs and thrown it, sending the item crashing through the window.

" – or, _that _works splendidly as well! _Aha!_" This time, there was no mistaking his superior gleefully clapping. "We have your location. I'll tell them the Lancelot and its trailer will be breaking formation now!"

"Suzaku." Cécile took over the conversation as he stared at the mess of glass at his feet. Some shards were still breaking off from the creeping cracks in what was left of the window pane. "At this rate, it's still going to take us five minutes to prep the Lancelot and make sure it's in the proper position."

"That's all right, Miss Cécile," he assured her. He didn't have a clue as to how they were going to accomplish that, with A.S.E.E.C.'s trailer – and the Lancelot, he presumed – on the _other _side of the lake. But he trusted that they had a plan. "I'll wait."

"Yes, you _mustn't_ leave now. And that's why..."

He finally _got _it when she trailed off, because that was when he heard the footsteps – dozens of them, weighted and frantic, coming from both ends of the hallway at once. And then, as they drew closer, they brought with them clicks of rifles and static, a barrage of orders in Japanese as the men, yet unseen and uncounted, flocked to the source of the recent, very loud crash of glass.

He sighed, a heavy, defeated sound. "You said five minutes, right?"

"That's right."

Was it strange that even at this time, after he'd bent down to retrieve the metal rod he now clutched tightly with both hands, the most vivid image in the back of his mind was that of L.L., calling him an idiot? But at the end of the day, he would be right, Suzaku thought as he steeled his nerves and waited for the first men to come into view, ready to fight. "Understood."

* * *

L.L. died somewhere on the eighteenth floor.

Too many empty hallways had left him rather careless, it seemed, as his fatal mistake came in rounding a final corner without checking in advance. And so he'd found himself suddenly facing half a dozen Eleven terrorists, whose reflexes with their assault rifles were much faster than his.

He'd woken to the smell of blood, and excruciating pain – he couldn't count the bullet wounds because there were so many, it seemed, that it became impossible to resolve them. But there had been the shadow of those men staring down, as though to make sure he were dead, and one of them was kicking idly at his shin when he opened his eyes.

And then he closed them again, tightly, and with his palms pressed against the floor, he showed them those children, something spinning, a veiled woman suddenly snapping ("_I'm sorry! I'm afraid I've tricked you!_") with her gaze bordering on delirium. Everything was either too bright or too dark, sketchy outlines moving as erratic as thought itself.

_Lasciate ogni speranza, voi ch'entrate._

Minutes after the last body hit the floor, his bullet wounds had already healed, and L.L. was busy tying the white bandana – the one with Japan's rising sun in the center, and the last article of his newly-acquired uniform – around his head.

* * *

It was convenient, in hindsight, that he didn't have to think; the order had been simple enough – _stay here –_ which was the only option now, given how the men had him surrounded.

By this time there were ten men on the floor, and more or less the same number still to contend with. Suzaku let another one drop and jumped onto the table, used the leverage to propel himself from wall to window ledge, kicking a man who had been in the way. He hit the carpet crouched as low as possible in that split second, sweeping the rod beneath the legs of two enemies in front of him.

_Join me_. Gods, there it was again, surfacing from the depths of his mind as bullets sprayed the ceiling uselessly. _Join me_.

No. (Someone drew a sword, and he barely rolled over to block it in time.) If for nothing else, he still had to save Shirley, and Millay. (Three persistent slashes and the metal of the curtain rod finally gave, but he'd already leapt to his feet and lunged forward, tackling the man to the floor.) And...

They were yelling at him in Japanese, words he understood – some that were familiar, others that were new, and some that were eerily close to what he got from Britannians in the army. He knew Kusakabe must have ordered these men after him, but was that reason enough to make them this _angry_?

"_Suzaku!"_ He heard Shirley's voice now, for some bizarre reason that eluded him (as he dodged another set of bullets, one barely ricocheting off the metal in his hand.) _"They said 'yes!' They're going to – "_ (With a defiant yell he flung half of the rod off to the side, impaling a rebel who had just begun to take aim once more.)

After a jump that cleared a man's head and landed him on the other side, he used the other to finish the job.

* * *

He didn't trust the elevators because at any point, any landing, he might find the doors opening to a squadron of JLF members, guns at the ready. They probably wouldn't shoot him – not right away, disguised like this and more fluent in Japanese than some Eleven children born after the occupation – but none of the scenarios he envisioned that involved encountering the terrorists ended well.

He was on his way to the rooftop, as well, but a barrage of gunshots echoed faintly from behind the door to the hallway: _26B_. L.L. swore, stopping in his tracks. There were still several more floors to go, but...there, it was unmistakable: a scuffle, somewhere around the corner of this corridor.

The tiny crack in the doorway showed hopelessly little. There was certainly a fight going on; had some of the JLF turned on their group? He could use the distraction that way. Still, he'd be damned if he got caught in the crossfire.

Or could it be...?

Gritting his teeth, L.L. clicked off the safety catch on each of his assault rifles, nudging the door open with his foot.

* * *

There were more bodies on the floor by this time, and yet they were still coming at him, coming strong. Suzaku had two swords in his hands now, swiped from now-empty scabbards off unconscious rebels sprawled on the carpet, against the wall, over upturned furniture. Broken pieces of previous blades littered the area; it was unfortunate that steel gave after just one bullet, two if he was lucky. He was going to run out of weapons very soon.

(Suzaku found himself trying not to imagine _him _there, watching from some corner of the hallway, waiting with his fingers drumming against the window sill, checking a watch he no longer had.)

In that moment of desperation, everything suddenly turned red. But he could still hear their screams.

* * *

L.L. was halfway through the corridor when the chaos intensified, and – against all logic – he quickened his pace. Because if he was right, and that boy (that _idiot_) was indeed somehow involved in this brawl, then it wouldn't end until they'd killed him, or at least left him incapacitated, right? That meant...

When he finally rounded the corner, he did so with his guns raised high and a particularly nasty psychic image hanging on a precipice in his mind, ready to be projected. But he hadn't expected to see _this _many terrorists lying on the floor. He hadn't expected these last three to drop like flies so quickly either, each one succumbing to a punch or a kick, or the hilt of a sword to his gut. Neither had he expected Suzaku to be the last one standing: Suzaku whose clothes were torn and soiled with splotches of blood, Suzaku who turned to him with a desperate, vicious gaze that threatened to send a chill down his spine.

In three moves he'd been disarmed; he had no idea how. Somehow he managed to grab the boy's arm with the last maneuver, and thought he might be able to calm him down. But before he could even speak the arm was wrenched away with a snarl. He took a blow to the shoulder, one more to the side, and then he was pinned to the wall, unable to move because of the sole of a boot locked above his throat.

"_Back off!_"

* * *

(And before Suzaku could think, before he could recognize those violet eyes glaring strongly at him from beneath furrowed brows, there was this: "Three hundred seconds! Congratulations!" ringing loudly in his ear; the very familiar head of a slash harken smashed through one of the last few windows that had remained intact.)

* * *

Notes for Chapter 7:

- Nina backs out because I can't imagine she'd be comfortable spending an entire day in such close proximity to Suzaku. Even when he saves Lelouch (in canon) and endears himself to the rest of the school this way, she's suspicious; God knows how she'd be here, without that event having taken place. But I will be using her in this story though, so don't worry that I'm writing her off or anything. As I did with Euphy, I'm just waiting for an appropriate time to introduce her.

- Some lines of dialogue – most notably, the reporter's spiel on the hostage situation – were taken directly from Episode 8 of the anime.

- Random Italian in one of the last few segments: "Abandon all hope, ye who enter [here]." It showed up as just a wall of text in one of those weird psychic Code-related hallucinations, I can't recall which episode. Also, Dante's _Inferno_.

So many, many thanks to **Serpent's Ballet, Seriyuu, Drakyndra, Mithluin, ishala8, .reading, CGRD, Melamori, plummy-kins, Persephone1, L. Lamperouge, Behan, AngelicDemon97, Allora Gale, A non a miss, X59, Vestis, Insane But Happy, Spunkay Skunk, Chatwyn, The New Lost Boy, Thisismedealwithit, (blank), nachan, **and** Key. vi .line **for each leaving a wonderful review! As will be the norm from now on (until, you know – I change my mind for the nth time, or something) review responses have been posted on my journal. Check my profile page for the link!

You all have my apologies for the ridiculous downtime. Believe me when I say I wish this chapter didn't take so long to post. It wasn't all that _hard _to write per se, but real-life obligations (moved to a new apartment, new semester started, some new developments in my research) demanded a lot of my time. They still do, actually, but hopefully all the recent chaos has settled into something of a steady-state. I just want to assure you guys that I'm not going to be abandoning this project any time soon, and I will do my best to make sure it doesn't get unreasonably long between updates. The support you guys have been giving is really nothing short of amazing, and I'm very grateful for it! It inspires me to press on. =)

Next chapter: The party continues, but as with all parties, there are going to be some latecomers...

Thanks so much for reading, guys! Comments and questions are all welcome, and again, sorry for the delay!


	8. Stage 08: All In

Disclaimer: _Code Geass_ – with its characters, settings, and all other borrowed elements here – is the sole property of its creators. I do this purely for my own entertainment, and (hopefully) that of my readers as well.

Opening lines of this chapter are taken from _Welcome to the Black Parade, _a song from My Chemical Romance.

Warnings for this chapter: None – which, in retrospect, is rather surprising =/.

Enjoy!

* * *

Even before acquiring his Code, L.L. had always thought that the need to breathe was one of the most inconvenient burdens of being human. So it was fortunate, then, that the slash harken smashing through the glass of the window pane managed to snap the young soldier out of whatever trance he'd fallen in.

"L.L.," he stammered, green eyes widening in recognition." The boot was finally withdrawn, and he welcomed the large, sudden influx of much-needed air. "I – I'm sorry! I didn't mean to – "

"What," L.L. wheezed – there wasn't much dignity in that, not at all, "the _hell _was that?"

Suzaku drew back. "I…" He swallowed audibly as he looked down and around him. For a moment he couldn't seem to even remember where he was, much less reconcile the terrorists lying senseless at his feet. And yet when it seemed his head had finally cleared, he only looked up, confused. "…Why are you dressed like that?"

"Are you _kidding _me?" That the boy had the nerve to ask such an inane question almost made L.L. want to hurt him. "If anything, I should be asking the questions. Such as: what in the worldwere you thinking?"

"Huh?" Suzaku bristled at his tone. "What do you mean? If I hadn't gone, they would have taken Shirley! And you still haven't answered me."

"Of all the pointless – "

"It's important!" Suzaku snapped, startling him. "I thought you were one of them! I almost…" He pressed the phone closer to the side of his head, and there was a slight tremble to his fingers then; he looked as though he wanted very much to say something else, but bit the rest of it down. "I'm sorry, Miss Cécile," he said in a much softer voice, speaking into the device. "No, I was speaking to someone else. Don't worry, I'll…" His gaze flickered rapidly from one direction to another, before settling on something a bit further into the hallway: a housekeeping cart. "…figure something out."

Probably one of his superiors at A.S.E.E.C., his mind supplied. He looked at the head of the harken which had buried itself halfway into the floor, pulling the cable taut. It certainly looked like the Lancelot's. But while he'd anticipated that one of the possible outcomes for this was siege warfare, what was A.S.E.E.C. doing on the front lines?

That was perhaps the least of his concerns right now, he reminded himself as he regarded Suzaku once more. There was an obvious restraint in his actions as he picked up a _katana_, one of the last few that remained intact, and shook the blood off the blade. L.L. followed him slowly as he jogged to the cart and frowned, wondering beside himself if this was really the same Suzaku who had dispatched all those men so easily, and came very close to seriously hurting him as well. He knew the boy was proficient in combat – their first meeting at Shinjuku had drilled that into his head deeply enough. But he'd been staring straight at Suzaku's eyes before that harken came, and there was something chilling in them then; so much anger, he'd thought, dangerously close to bloodlust.

That side of him – where had it been hiding? And what triggered it?

"…It was necessary," he finally conceded. "The floor we were held on was teeming with rebels, and I needed a disguise."

Suzaku nodded at that but otherwise didn't ask him how he'd acquired the uniform, or even how he escaped in the first place. It was odd, but he supposed there would be time for a more thorough inquisition later; that went for the _both _of them.

And… "You're hurt," he commented, stopping beside him and reaching up to untie the bandana around his head.

"I'm fine," Suzaku muttered, distracted. He'd removed the cloth covering the cart completely and flipped the latter upside-down, dislodging all its contents. But he tilted his head away as L.L. wrapped the garment around his neck, granting him easier access to the gash there. "Thanks."

L.L. shook his head. "That doesn't change the fact that what you did was completely rash and irresponsible. What happened to Shirley was terrible, but they wouldn't have hurt her right away, and it wouldn't have killed you to actually think things through." He gritted his teeth, wondering if he was even getting through to the other boy at all. After all, he could have sworn they'd had this conversation before. "Do you know how easily they could have killed you up there? You went there _alone_. We would have never heard from you again. It's clear they didn't let you just walk out of there; hell, it's no small miracle you're still alive at all, and _what_ in God's name are you _doing_?"

By this time Suzaku had sliced off the very bottom of the cart, and with another stroke he isolated the two front wheels and the narrow strip of metal directly above them. He made his way back to the window, all the while tearing off a section of cloth that was the same width as the length of the strip. Bracing a foot against the ledge, he swept off as much broken glass as he could before proceeding to position the strange item in his hand so that the grooves in the wheels fit snugly over the harken cable.

It was as though the boy hadn't even heard him. L.L. sucked in his breath through his teeth and tried not to be annoyed. "Suzaku."

"This is going to get derailed, isn't it?" he muttered, before shaking his head. He unfurled the cloth with one end in his teeth and had it wrapped snugly around both items more quickly than L.L. would have thought possible. "Give me your jacket."

"What?" He caught Suzaku about to simply repeat what he'd just said, and cut in. "I mean, _why_?"

"Because I don't have any gloves on, and I don't think I want to find out what it's like to have steel burn through my hand." That alone was enough to make L.L. yield the garment, albeit begrudgingly, but just when it was handed over he offered another reason: "That, and if we're going to meet up with A.S.E.E.C. and the rest of the military we don't want them to see you dressed like that and make the same mistake I did."

L.L. watched him, incredulous, as he wrapped the jacket as many times around his right hand as it would go. "You can't possibly be serious."

But he was. "Hands around my neck," Suzaku instructed, "and don't let go."

"_No._" L.L. decided there was a limit to just how much he was going to tolerate this day's ludicrousness. "I am _not_ interested in testing out this pitiful mechanism you cobbled together from household implements!"

"What are you saying?" Suzaku let the insult slide, but there was a trace of frustration in his tone. "Unless you're with the rest of the hostages, you're fair game for the military _and _the JLF when they see you. I didn't ask you to come after me, if that's what you did, but I'm not going to leave you here!"

Very noble of him, L.L. thought, almost woefully so. The truth was, he hadn't expected the boy to be able to improvise this much in just a few minutes, and he had to admit it was a remarkable effort. But if the Lancelot was on the other side of the lake, he highly doubted Suzaku would be able to complete the ride if he just planned to _hold on_ the entire time; he himself would just be adding dead weight, and they would be easy target practice for the JLF the moment they landed in the water.

But he had a feeling _reason_ wasn't going to win him this argument. "Who do you think you're speaking to?" he said instead, punctuating that with a smirk.

And then L.L. remembered that while he technically still owed Suzaku an explanation – for many things, but among them, how he survived Shinjuku and all the things that implied – the boy had yet to collect.

Suzaku hesitated, already halfway out the window. A particularly loud voice he recognized as Lloyd Asplund's shattered the silence in an assault that went well beyond the phone's receiver, but he couldn't make out what the man was saying. "Fine," he said after a long pause.

And then he lunged forward, hoisted L.L. up by the waist with one arm, and returned to the window with the man slung over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes before he could even blink.

"Yell at me for this later," he called out. Completely oblivious to the sputtering, indignant protests of his unwilling passenger, Suzaku grabbed the makeshift pulley and jumped.

* * *

**.**

_A war that sends you reeling_

_From decimated dreams_

_Your misery and hate will kill us all_

_So paint it black, and take it back_

_Let's shout out loud and clear_

_Defiant to the end we hear the call_

_To carry on, we'll carry on_

**.**

**Bird's-Eye View**

Stage 08

**. : All In : .**

The twenty-foot container arrived at Lake Kawaguchi in a squeal of brakes and a spray of dust rendered almost unnoticeable by the darkening sky. Its driver swore at that, and then apologized for it with a guilty smile.

"Look at that," he commented, nodding at the squadrons of Imperial Knightmares crowding the shore. "They didn't spare anyone. Next thing you know, the Knights of the Round will be along too."

"Let's hope not." Tohdoh, rarely one to appreciate irony or off-color humor on the battlefield, rummaged through the glove compartment for a pair of binoculars. But he didn't need them as he squinted through the windshield and spotted their first obstacle to contend with: "So it's true. They really did destroy the main bridge."

Asahina laughed, and didn't bother looking over his shoulder as he shifted the truck into reverse. "It's almost as if they don't want our help."

"They need it." Tohdoh narrowed his eyes. "And they'll have it whether they want it or not."

But this really was an inconvenient setback. While he was in steady contact with at least three of the rebels via radio, he just couldn't come up with an ideal strategy unless he himself was _in_ the hotel, with access to all of its resources and equipment. Being close to the hostages wouldn't hurt, either, although by now he wondered if that even mattered at all.

Tohdoh clenched his jaw as two Gloucesters came into view, facing away from them, and Asahina steered the truck away accordingly.

It had taken some coercion on his part, but within fifteen minutes of leaving Narita he'd obtained the identity of the young Japanese boy who'd surrendered himself to Kusakabe and his men. And he didn't know what to call the conflicting mess of sentiments upon learning that it was, indeed, the same boy with the stubborn eyes and unruly hair that he himself had trained in the art of combat, many years ago.

(It was the same boy who vanished right after his father's death. And perhaps it was the same boy who'd left a dozen, message-less calls on his phone that day, but when he'd finally had a chance to call the number left there, he never even got a dial tone.)

Kururugi Suzaku – so he'd been alive, all these years. _'You are not to hurt him, is that clear?'_ had been his last order to the men in the penthouse suite with Kusakabe, but apparently it had come too late.

"Colonel," Asahina's voice interrupted his thoughts, "there's too many of them. I can't get any closer without getting spotted."

"Keep following this road," he instructed. "Hold this distance. They don't seem to have caught on to us just yet. We'll have to think of something before…"

There was plenty of space between the truck and the rear line of Knightmares arranged in formation, and it was difficult to see past the crowded lines of machines. But even so, Tohdoh was able to catch a glimpse of something floating in the water, close enough to shore but definitely not part of the forces there. He peered through the binoculars. There was a van nearby, and a boat with a man…

"Nagisa." He frowned, passing the instrument to the woman on his right. Pointing at the floating mass now too far away for him to resolve as properly, he indicated her line of sight. "That man…what is he doing?"

When she finally lowered the binoculars and confirmed his suspicions – not only that the man was _fishing_ but also, what that van was doing there, what it _implied_ – Tohdoh nodded and understood. "Stop the truck."

Asahina did as he was told. He'd been driving back further inland, and they were now well out of the Britannian forces' sight. When he was told where he needed to go, he raised his eyebrows in surprise. "…Huh. You're serious?"

The colonel nodded gravely. "Can you manage it?"

"I don't know," he shrugged, "but I'll find out."

That could go for all of them, he knew, but he didn't have to say it aloud. It would be too difficult to ask Kusakabe to send some men to set-up a rendezvous with them, especially with this area heavily guarded by Knightmares. Reaching back into the glove compartment and the space underneath it for supplies, he went through the details of his hastily-formed plan once more in his mind, before straightening up and passing around sidearms.

"This will be difficult," he warned his subordinates. He picked up the radio and prepared to relay his instructions to the men within the hotel. "But here's what we have to do."

* * *

Cocooned within the cockpit of her custom Gloucester, Cornelia li Britannia, Second Princess of the Holy Empire, was brooding.

It was too late to blame Euphy for not listening to her, or to blame _herself_ for not being strict enough with her sister. They'd been here long enough, certainly, although it was hard to tell just from the passing events. In fact, the only real highlight of their campaign had been a call from the inside, that the hostages were isolated and could survive a swarm on the hotel. Unfortunately, before they could even verify this information the head of A.S.E.E.C. went live and shamelessly asked for an extension, at which Cornelia gnashed her teeth and told him to hurry.

But simply waiting was unnerving. She didn't need this idleness, this opportunity to obsess over which forces were here, how thorough Euphy's disguise had been, why the enemy hadn't yet attacked. She didn't need the frustration that while she had some of the finest units at her beck and call, here, she could do practically nothing.

And she didn't need the frantic beeping from the monitor of her Knightmare to inform her of the truck crashing through foliage from the northwest.

_Finally_.

Within a heartbeat Darlton's unit was in front of hers, P.A. system activated. "Driver of the approaching vehicle, identify – "

"Don't bother," Cornelia said. The chances that this truck was one of theirs were miniscule, and if it were, well – she had no need for such incompetent people who could neither arrive on time nor follow simple instructions. Maneuvering her Gloucester past his, she docked the lance and brought up her assault rifle with the other hand. Over the channel shared by all the units there, including that blasted Special Envoy that seemed to be taking its own _sweet_ time, she ordered: "Destroy it!"

She was at the edge of the formation, closest to the rogue vehicle, when she noticed that it hadn't veered at all, merely speeding forward and following the curve of the shoreline, keeping a constant distance from the rear line. Eyes narrowed, she zoomed in on the right side of the windshield, by now cracking from stray bullets, and saw…

Cornelia swore, stopping her fire immediately.

…_nothing._

"Princess," Guilford's voice floated over their private channel. "This might be…"

"A demo truck?" she finished for him. The container, painted a dark gray, was certainly large enough to house several powerful explosives. It was the worst-case scenario, but that was precisely what they taught you to assume for missions like these, from day one. With their units concentrated here and the nearest JLF forces all the way in the middle of the lake, the outcome would be catastrophic.

She decided she would not take any chances.

"All units, hold your fire!" When they did so, she gave her next command: "Aim at the truck and tires only. Do not fire on the container!"

As the wave of "_Yes, your Highness_" flooded her cockpit's speakers, it was joined by another sound: enemy fire, from the hotel.

"Princess Cornelia," Darlton informed her. "The JLF units positioned around the hotel perimeter have begun firing into the lake."

They had indeed. "It's a demonstration!" she said loudly, barely sparing a glance. The water frothed and broke under the widely-spaced barrage from assault rifles, grenades, and even miniature rocket launchers, but the shots all fell too far away from the shore. "Ignore it!"

Invariably though, there were some lesser units – perhaps out of instinct, perhaps out of confusion, or a combination of both – that actually returned fire.

"Imbeciles," she muttered under her breath, before raising her voice once more. "Were my orders unclear? I said it's a demonstration, don't fall for it! Let them waste their ammunition and focus only on the truck, do you hear?"

It was such a transparent attempt, she thought to herself, and an insulting one at that. Did the enemy really believe she would buy into such basic tactics? Still, the fact that those terrorists had taken action from the hotel precisely when this stray vehicle appeared confirmed that it was indeed an enemy unit, communicating with the hotel's forces.

There was that, she smirked to herself, as well as something else: with this foolish attempt at deception, the controller of the vehicle – whether he was actually inside it or not – had just given himself away.

"Princess, it seems that there's a reporter – "

"In the line of fire? Then he's an idiot," she snapped, irritated that they were _still_ acknowledging the show of force from the hotel. It didn't help her mood to see the truck, albeit swaying and with one flat tire, cross the leftmost line to their formation, so that it was now directly behind some of the Knightmares. "Rear line, what the _hell_ are you doing?" she roared. "Fall back and take out those tires!"

With several more bursts of fire they finally did, and the truck spun out of control. The horrible sound of metal grating against rock accompanied sparks and dust flying from the rims, until the vehicle was finally stopped by a tree.

She gunned her landspinners and steered her Knightmare towards the smoking truck. "Princess Cornelia, let us escort you," came a transmission from one of the units in the rear line, to which she merely scoffed; after that shameful display? There was going to be some serious house-cleaning once they got back to base. They were lucky she wasn't going to start _now_.

Finally, though, she received an encouraging sign: the terrorists in the middle of the lake, slowly easing up on their fire. "That's right," she murmured. "Your tactics are worthless, and always have been."

The feeling was short-lived, however, when the door to the driver's side of the truck finally opened. It took several tries and a kick, as their assault had smashed the window and warped the door frame. But the young man who stumbled out was very much alive, with only minor wounds on his shoulders and hands. Had he been crouched under the dashboard the entire time, Cornelia wondered, her lip curling downward. Disgraceful.

The driver was dressed like one of the JLF, as expected. When he moved to raise his arms, though, he looked around at the dozen Knightmares that had circled him, and his eyes were laughing behind his glasses.

"Okay," he chuckled, entirely too pleased with himself. "You got me."

…There was something wrong with this, Cornelia thought as several officers exited their Knightmares. Some moved to arrest the driver while others went to inspect the truck – it would be empty, by now that was clear to her. But the uneasiness remained, and this was why she climbed out of her Gloucester and immediately demanded a status report.

They'd lost no units, which was promising. However…

"We've been getting messages from Hi-TV," Guilford informed her, joining her on the ground.

She recognized the name, one of the networks that had sent field reporters to document the turn of events from this side of the lake. "And?"

"The media crew tell us they have a boat unaccounted for, along with one of their producers."

"A boat?" She frowned. "How is that possible? We specifically told them not to – "

It dawned on her then, and all of a sudden everything made sense.

"_Those goddamned Elevens!_" she shouted, spinning on her heel and shoving past him.

"Princess?" Guilford was at her heels in an instant, but she paid him no heed as she ran back to her Gloucester. On the way, she swiped a radio from one of the officers on the ground and didn't bother to acknowledge his surprise.

"Asplund!" she yelled angrily. "Report!"

She had been half-right; all that blind firing into the lake had indeed been just a demonstration…for a blasted _decoy_.

"Your idiot devicer had better be there already," she seethed before that irreverent Earl could speak two words to her, "because we're not waiting anymore: I want the Z-01 launched _now!_"

* * *

It turned out Suzaku _was _strong enough to support them both, as they rode the crude zip-line to the Lancelot. Halfway through the trip, L.L. stopped worrying about an instant, possibly fatal fall and instead concerned himself with slightly more trivial things, such as how to get back at the boy for tricking him into this in the first place.

Stopping was another matter altogether, though. When Suzaku tried to brake, the steel cable ate through the material of the jacket wrapped around his hand faster than either of them had anticipated. At the yelp of pain and series of mild curses that followed, L.L. shut his eyes and readied himself for the inevitable.

The world shook violently as the pulley smashed at full-speed into the Lancelot's forearm, and the impact threw them off completely. For a brief moment he was caught in a graceless tumble until gravity finally dictated which way he should go. But Suzaku had managed to grab onto the armored plate at the last second and snatched his wrist in the next.

He imagined they made a ridiculous sight, two boys dangling off the outstretched arm of a Knightmare that wasn't even technically _activated_.

"Pretty calm for someone on the verge of death," Suzaku commented in jest, straining to pull them both up.

L.L. scowled. "Again, who are you talking to?"

"Right." Crouching down, Suzaku disassembled the makeshift pulley and let the items fall to the ground. "Sorry for misleading you back there, but I won't apologize for bringing you here. It seems Princess Cornelia's actually serious about tearing the hotel apart." He reached out a hand, and L.L. took it begrudgingly, if only because it was difficult to keep his balance on a Knightmare's arm. "Come on."

That was fair enough, he conceded silently. Eyeing the phone still clipped to the boy's ear, he realized Suzaku must have been getting orders from his superiors the entire time. It would explain a lot of things, in hindsight.

Still, it surprised him that Cornelia herself was among the forces here, even more so that she was apparently ready to attack. Wouldn't the JLF members just threaten to kill all the hostages once it came to that? That was unless someone on the Britannians' side had already confirmed his tip that the hostages were locked in; in that case, this whole situation would devolve into a race as to who could destroy the hotel first.

…Unless, of course, the hostages were already deemed lost? The wind had been roaring in his ears until several seconds ago, but he could have sworn he heard gunfire on the way. But why would either side be firing into the lake?

Shaking his head, L.L. decided he had too little information to make a meaningful assessment, and wished he knew more.

The cockpit hatch was open, and the seat extended all the way back. A steel ladder was propped against the Knightmare's opposite shoulder, lashed to the ground with ropes through the bottom rung, and Suzaku ushered him to it. "I told my superiors I'd be bringing a civilian with me, so they're already expecting you. Please go to them, for your own protection."

He supposed a third reminder would just be irritating, for both of them. "And you?" he asked, eyeing the large trailer and several men in uniforms he recognized as A.S.E.E.C.'s cluttering the ground near the ladder.

"I don't know. But I think I'm going back." Suzaku climbed into the seat, unclipping the phone (stolen, he presumed; it looked nothing like the one the boy surrendered earlier that day) and placing it in his pocket. "Hurry, there's not much time."

Normally he would have commented on the ironic stupidity of someone who just escaped a source of danger running _right back into it_, but orders were orders. And he supposed the Lancelot drastically changed the conditions at hand.

A stubborn part of him couldn't help but worry, though. And another, equally vexing part couldn't help but wonder why.

He grasped the top rung of the ladder and prepared to climb down, testing it with his leg. It seemed stable enough. Satisfied with this, he spared one last look at Suzaku (he was fumbling for something under his seat, but L.L. couldn't imagine what) before –

"Mm-hmm, goooood luck Suzaku~!"

– he scrambled off and clambered back across the Lancelot's shoulder. _Shit_. If he'd looked any closer at the ground, he should have seen the scientist in the white coat waving madly from outside the trailer. Earl Asplund had seen his face at Shinjuku, and if the man were to recognize him here, L.L. imagined the chances his presence would be connected to that of the terrorists were rather high. He didn't want to take that risk.

Slowly, L.L. made his way back to the entrance of the cockpit. Bracing himself against the hatch until he was almost fully obscured by the massive extension on the right shoulder, he peered down and waited for Lloyd to leave.

How long would it take the Lancelot to fully activate? He didn't have the figure on hand, but if it was modelled after a Sutherland, then…

No, a better plan: he would wait for them to give the mission outline. By then, if Lloyd _still_ hadn't returned to the trailer or otherwise made himself scarce, then he would have to think of some other way to escape.

"Warrant Officer Suzaku Kururugi." L.L. snuck a glance into the cockpit (because he could, and he was _curious_): Suzaku had retracted the seat all the way inside. He'd also affixed his communicator now, a familiar accessory that replaced the phone from earlier. He was pulling on a pair of gloves that had been waiting for him beside one of the controllers, and when he finished he fingered the start-up key that was already in place. "Reporting for duty."

"Welcome back, Suzaku." It wasn't Lloyd's voice that filled the cockpit's interior, but rather that of a woman who spoke with both warmth and relief. "I'm so glad you're all right."

"It's good to be back." L.L. wasn't sure how to read the flash of a smile then; he couldn't see very well, from this awkward angle, but he could make out how it softened his features, highlighted his eyes. Suzaku really was at home here, he realized then, in this machine, on the battlefield. '_You identify more with the soldier_,' he'd accused once before, but back then he'd had very little to back that up. It turned out this sight was all he needed. "Thank you, Miss Cécile. May I?"

"Of course." A series of small sub-screens appeared and disappeared on the front panel in rapid succession before the woman spoke again. "Resuming manual control. It's all yours."

It was strange, how the Lancelot resembled a Sutherland from the inside…but at the same time, _didn't_. The controls Suzaku used to retract the harken were familiar, although he pulled much harder until the head came zooming back. It disappeared into the wrist, not the chest, and from what he could tell there were at least four. He wondered where the others were, just as he wondered about the curious arrays of buttons and levers he'd definitely never seen in a Sutherland before.

One thing nagged at him, though: he couldn't seem to find an ejection block. But perhaps the design was radically different, and he was just looking in the wrong place.

"Ready?"

L.L. didn't realize the implication of that word until he felt the hatch lurch behind him. He lost his footing and slid down the incline, but the hatch was moving faster and he soon found himself shoved violently into the cockpit. Visions of Shinjuku and the truck with the gas canister flashed in his mind, among blind panic and other things: _what about the mission outline? _he very nearly yelled. Were they planning to send Suzaku in _blind_?

"Lancelot, activate M.E. B – augh!" Suzaku grunted in either pain or surprise when L.L. crashed into the seat from behind. But it was definitely the latter that took over when the hatch closed completely and he whirled around. "_What are you doing here?_"

"I – I miscalculated." L.L. felt the blood draining rapidly from his face. He would have asked to be let out, but a quick glance told him that the Lancelot and Sutherlands had one last thing in common – and that Suzaku had already pressed that button.

"Lancelot," Cécile's voice did nothing to assuage the sheer panic that had built up, all in a span of three seconds. "Launch!"

Suzaku didn't have a choice. "Now launching," he acknowledged through gritted teeth, and when he released the button the Lancelot surged forward, sending L.L. hurtling toward the back of the cockpit.

* * *

As he was being led up to the penthouse suite, with his hands bound behind him and a gun trained on his side, Diethard Ried realized he got more than he'd bargained for when he wished this day would be more _interesting_.

He had no idea who these people were, the man and woman currently letting themselves into the suite and dragging him inside as well. They were dressed as Honorary Britannian foot soldiers, sporting the same grey uniform and dark body armor he'd seen on many a grunt of the army. But they were clearly _not_ fighting for Britannia, as evidenced by the way they'd come out from nowhere, hijacked his boat, and ordered him at gunpoint to make for the hotel.

The minutes that followed had been agonizing, as he'd ventured into the hail of bullets and was not allowed to turn around and see what the commotion was all about on the shore. And while he'd never felt time pass more slowly than when his humble little vessel was creeping along the lake, he supposed there was a bit of comfort to be found when the man, crouched on the boat's floor and hiding beneath a tarp, radioed _somebody_ in the hotel with orders specifically not to fire on the approaching fishing boat.

He also supposed that had been a giveaway as well.

"Colonel!" He recognized the man who called himself Kusakabe from previous reports, and he ran from the broken window (what the _hell _had happened in here?) on the other side of the room to greet his captor. "How good of you to come! We thought – "

"That's enough," the man said. He seemed to have a permanent scowl on his face. "This foolish endeavor of yours has already done us more harm than I expected!"

Kusakabe stepped back, blubbering an apology.

"It's too late for that now. The best we can do is…" He trailed off, and then shook his head. Ordering the door shut with a single glance at an overeager terrorist on the other side of the room, he walked over to the couch and pulled out a radio. "Everyone, I am assuming full control of this operation effective immediately. I want a full, comprehensive report of the whole situation thus far, and…"

The woman forced him into a seat by the window as the man continued making demands, but Diethard was less anxious now. The fear was still there – that they had no real use for him, and could kill him in a heartbeat, was never discounted. But he also had to admit, he was curious. From past research he had done on the Japanese Liberation Front, he knew of a particularly legendary man who held the same rank as the one before him. And if this man had successfully smuggled himself into the hotel from the _other_ side of the lake, then…

He waited until the woman looked away before daring to move.

And it involved much difficulty, but he was eventually able to wriggle the small tape recorder out of his back pocket.

* * *

"Warrant Officer Kururugi," Lloyd drawled through the speakers. "You might not be aware, but it seems you _still _have a stowaway!"

L.L. had just recovered from the tumble, clutching desperately at the back of the seat, and they exchanged a meaningful glance. "I'm aware," Suzaku finally said. This whole time the Lancelot was running purely on momentum from its initial thrust, riding along the plane and a path pre-determined on the left side of the screen. "It was my mistake, and I apologize. Is there anywhere safe I can drop him off?"

"Unfortunately when we adjusted the Lancelot to match your position in the hotel, we had to move away from the main formation," Cécile said ruefully. "At this point, you would have to make a detour."

"Can I?" Suzaku immediately asked. It took all of L.L.'s willpower not to echo '_Can he?_' as well.

"Mmmmmmm." It was Lloyd again, and from the way this conversation was going, L.L. was at least grateful they were only on an audio channel. "If you're prepared to face Princess Cornelia's wrath once we return to base, then by all means. I wouldn't mind either way."

Suzaku faltered. "But surely given the circumstances – "

"Her Highness specifically ordered, in verbatim, 'no more delays for _any_ reason under _any _circumstances,' with severe repercussions should we decide to test her on that. I'm beginning to believe she wanted this mission done _yesterday_." Lloyd chuckled. "It's your call. The longer you wait to decide, the longer your potential detour will be."

L.L. frowned at that, trying to ignore the dread as it settled into something awful in his gut. He never imagined he would wind up causing A.S.E.E.C. this much trouble. But it really begged the question, though: why was Cornelia in such a hurry to finish this? He thought of all the implications, and they all only seemed to add to the nausea he was already suffering.

Those hostages – how long did they have?

"I'll…I'll accept full responsibility." Suzaku tightened his grip on the controllers. "Please, tell me where – "

"We're staying on-course," L.L. finally spoke up, making sure to overpower the soldier's voice. "Sorry for the inconvenience."

"Aha! So you're alive after all!" Lloyd sounded positively ecstatic, although whether it was over his condition or what he'd just proposed wasn't all that clear. "That's good to know. Wouldn't have wanted our devicer piloting with a corpse in tow – "

"Lloyd!" Cécile shrieked, making the speakers hum.

It couldn't be helped, L.L. thought to himself. Cornelia was a ruthless commander, and he was certain the underlying threat in that command they'd been relayed was very much real. _He _was the one who had stayed near the cockpit too long, after all. Suzaku didn't deserve to be punished for that if only in principle, and if the Lancelot's participation in this effort was a necessity, then –

"Are you crazy?" Suzaku blurted out. "I can't just take you with me!"

"Knightmares escort civilians in need of protection all the time. Think of it that way."

"This is not the same thing!"

He was right, of course. L.L. conceded the point with a shrug, not bothering to argue back.

"Look, I'm going back." Suzaku brought up a local map as the Lancelot began to slow down. "If I bring you back to the trailer, you can – "

L.L. pulled himself forward, using the seat as leverage, until he was leaning very close and their faces were inches apart. Bracing one hand against the panel, he used the other to cover the mouthpiece on the boy's communicator.

"Force me out of here," he said in a very low voice, "and I will tell Millay and Shirley who you really are. I promise you that."

Suzaku recovered from his momentary shock rather quickly, baring his teeth. "You were the one who made me lie in the first place!" he snarled.

"And I am going to compensate for that by making you _not _do the stupid thing now." L.L. leaned back, just a little, and kept his voice free of emotion. "Either you take me back to the base and face both a demotion _and_ potential ostracism at Ashford, or you let me help you finish your damn mission and we go back together. Do you want me to up the ante? Believe me, I will, if I have to."

That last one was a bluff – he didn't have anything else on the boy, save for some particularly sinister cards he wouldn't dream of playing in the first place. It was strange, he recognized, that he was willing to antagonize Suzaku right now if it meant preventing a clash with his superiors later on. _That_ would certainly set him back from his goal of 'changing the Empire,' especially when he'd placed such a premium on acquiring the Lancelot, but since when had L.L. particularly cared about something as abstract as this one soldier's nigh-impossible dream?

No, there had to be more than that, he insisted to himself. And it wasn't hard to come up with those reasons: that the hostages still needed to be saved, and the military still needed to overcome the hotel's defenses. He'd seen the Lancelot in battle, after all, and he knew just how potent of a threat it was to the enemy. And he wasn't above admitting he wanted to see it from the inside as well – why it was so special and fearsome, just what exactly made it tick. Of course. What was he thinking?

Suzaku shifted his gaze to the left, avoiding L.L.'s eyes, as he took the man's fingers and pried them off his communicator. "You know," he murmured, "I don't like you very much right now."

For all that he saw it coming, he wasn't sure why that statement still hurt a bit more than he'd expected. Still, L.L. noted with some satisfaction that they were accelerating once more.

Since he wasn't a part of the military, he understood when Suzaku's superiors switched to his earpiece for the audio-link as they discussed his mission outline. Despite this, it was not hard to get the gist of it as he saw the visual aids taking up half of the screen. Evidently there was a utility tunnel that ran from one side of the lake to the basement of the hotel. If he understood correctly, the Lancelot was to move into position under the hotel, destroy the foundation block, and sink it.

It seemed straightforward enough at a first glance, he thought to himself as they approached the entrance to the tunnel. After all, the hotel would not be submerged immediately, and the area with the hostages should still hold out for several minutes – just enough, he surmised, to break them out of that room and evacuate them safely.

But if it were indeed all that simple, he couldn't help but wonder why they needed an advanced prototype such as the Lancelot.

"Sixty seconds to operation start," Cécile's voice came over the speakers again as they descended. "Commencing countdown."

The numbers flashed on-screen as soon as the Lancelot's landspinners hit the floor. The tunnel was dimly lit, and its faint reddish glow lent it an eerie ambience.

It seemed to take forever; he wasn't sure why they were even waiting anyway. "Isn't this so much more fulfilling than taking me back to your superiors?" he quipped.

Suzaku merely shook his head. "You can't do that."

Thirty seconds. "Do what?"

"What you just did." He couldn't see from here, but he imagined Suzaku was wearing a petulant look. "You can't just manipulate people into doing something even if it's against their will."

For a long time, L.L. found himself staring at the back of his head. Oh, if only he knew how _wrong_ that was. "I stopped you from doing something terribly stupid that would lead to unfavorable circumstances," he said instead. "Is that really so bad?"

It was unfortunate if Suzaku had a reply to that, because the seconds quickly drained to zero.

The Lancelot sped forward, the tunnel walls a moving blur through the video screens. The sinking hotel would be a sight to see, but all things considered this was quite the anticlimactic end. Still, the sooner this mission was completed, the sooner they could find out for sure if Millay and Shirley –

He gasped when they suddenly swerved to the side. Before he could resolve that, however, they were already veering the other way, and then backwards and down. If he hadn't been holding on to the seat, he would have ricocheted off the cockpit walls like a ping-pong ball. "Suzaku! What in the name of…"

L.L. saw the projectiles then, hard and fast just as the previous ones exploded harmlessly behind them.

"It's a linear cannon," he replied in a strained voice, maneuvering the Knightmare this way and that. His hands were like lightning on the controls. He managed to avoid the first few of this next salvo, but the last ones were aimed at the center. Flipping a couple of switches simultaneously on the undersides of the controllers, he brought the Lancelot's arms before them and barely put up those familiar, greenish-hued shields in time. "They modified a Glasgow."

The explosion flooded the facstphere sensors with bright, blinding white, and shook the Knightmare's interior. "Certainly packs a punch," he muttered, grasping the back of the seat as though it were an anchor. "But that means…"

He could see the Lancelot's speed displayed on the status screen right beside him. Then, estimating the projectiles' speed and factoring in the size of the tunnel…

"This is bad. Your evasion rate is less than fifty per cent."

"47.8, to be exact." Suzaku switched tactics and shut off one of the shields, trying to see if he could fight with one arm and defend with the other. By some wonder, he managed to crack a bemused smile. "You did all that in your head? Amazing."

"You knew about this?" L.L. asked, incredulous.

"It was part of the mission outline." Eyes darting across the displays, Suzaku gritted his teeth and deactivated the second shield. "Hang on!"

L.L. merely shut his eyes as the Lancelot fired its harkens and propelled itself along the tunnel walls. Of course there would be an obstacle like this, he chided himself, trying to discern whether or not they were no longer upside-down. They had to have a plan, though; even with the Lancelot's speed, they couldn't keep parrying forever. "How will you destroy it?"

The landspinners finally settled on horizontal ground, and when he opened his eyes the shields were back up again. "I don't know."

"_What?_"

"They didn't say as much. I told you, you should have stayed behind!"

L.L. looked over his shoulder in alarm, and although he hated to admit it, part of him was starting to see the wisdom in that. But that cannon…

He blinked. The cannon hadn't been that large before. He quickly realized that all of Suzaku's recent dodging and shielding had not been completely random at all, but rather was designed to bring them _closer _to the cannon. Did he plan to use the Lancelot's swords? Or maybe…

He squinted, hard. The linear cannon took up most of the tunnel cross-wise, although he could see what seemed to be several Knightmares lined up behind it – Sutherlands, from what he could see, possibly from the depot. They didn't seem to be activated.

The next salvo arrived, and again there were several projectiles zooming their way. But while they were all travelling at the same speed, it didn't seem as though they were fired at the same _time_. Was there a pattern to this as well?

"What's the lag on your slash harkens' firing system?" he asked. Suzaku told him, and it was an impressive number; it was certainly much lower than those for his swords or that rifle, which were all still docked. Doing the math in his head…_yes_, it could work, but barely. "See the Knightmares behind the cannon?"

"Yeah?"

"When I say so, steer the Lancelot all the way to _where_ I say so, and fire all of them simultaneously."

Suzaku looked confused. "But I can't aim very well in here!"

"You won't have to." L.L. braced himself between the chair and the nearest panel, anticipating the next salvo. If the tiny space was a necessary constraint, after all, they may as well use it to their advantage _somehow_. "The projectiles seem to follow a pattern. The ones fired from the edges will give you a greater opportunity to dodge. When that happens, take the opening."

He nodded, gripping the controllers.

The next salvo came, and the blast seemed more powerful than the previous ones. L.L. narrowed his eyes and watched through the greenish blur of the shields: _left-center, right, center, right-center – _

_Left. _"Right!" he ordered, not realizing he'd shot out his arm and grabbed the controller over the boy's hand, pulling it accordingly. Suzaku followed without protest and, before the last projectile had even crossed the Lancelot's path, shut off the shields.

There were four harkens, L.L. learned then: two mounted at the wrists, and two others at the hips. They zigzagged from wall to opposite wall in a chaotic tangle of cable and metal, sending sparks flying across. One missed entirely, but the other three hit home, destroying the visible Sutherlands and leaving a deep slash on the side of the cannon's main body.

"That was good," he commented, releasing his grip. "Now to deal with the problem at hand." He didn't want the Knightmares to give them any trouble later, but that blasted linear cannon really was the main obstacle they had to surmount. At least now he'd isolated it, though, but he had to think quickly –

He stopped plotting when he saw the cannon begin to shake. Two appendages of some sort unhinged slowly from the main frame, until they settled and locked parallel to…

L.L.'s heart raced. Parallel to the main barrel. Were those…?

"Miss Cécile." During that time, Suzaku had managed to shorten the gap between the Lancelot and the cannon considerably, and his shields were up as they raced further forward. "It's time for me to use the VARIS."

(_VARIS_, his mind echoed. What was that, the rifle?)

"_No!_" The sheer panic in the woman's voice almost made him jump. "You could get killed!"

Suzaku set his jaw. "There's no room for me to evade; I'll risk getting blasted to take the first shot!"

It only dawned on him when he noticed the Lancelot had been locked in a steady advance, along a line running dead-center along the tunnel. There was a sinister glow – or several, he wasn't sure – building up in front of the cannon. "What are you planning…?" he started, suddenly unsure.

"Hey, L.L." Nudging off his communicator with his shoulder, Suzaku threw him a glance. A ghost of a smile played on the corners of his lips, but there was an unspoken apology in his eyes. "If anything happens…you'll be okay, right?"

L.L. turned to him in alarm. "Suzaku?"

He dropped his shields.

* * *

Five minutes ago, at around 6:30 in the evening, a soldier came in and gave a rather uninteresting report about yet another, albeit strange-looking Knightmare entering the underground tunnel. Now that same soldier was back, and was in near hysterics as he informed them that this said Knightmare had dodged all of the cannon's attacks so far, and forced its operators to their last resort.

Kusakabe and the others were in immediate panic, but Tohdoh merely narrowed his eyes. "Supposing he overcomes the Raikou completely, is there another line of defense for him to deal with?"

"There are several Knightmares positioned behind the cannon," Kusakabe supplied. "But at this rate…"

Tohdoh sighed. At this rate, he wondered if they would last very long at all.

Still, the reason he wasn't panicking so much was because at this point, he already had all the information he needed. He knew what he had to do. Repulsed at having to resort to _this_ – but recognizing that he had no other options – Tohdoh looked over the papers and photos scattered on the table in front of him one last time.

And then, very calmly, he asked to be connected via private channel directly to Cornelia li Britannia.

* * *

Suzaku waited until the very last minute – when the projectiles were dangerously close, when he saw all of them coming at once, when L.L. was already yelling into his ear – before firing back.

The blast from the VARIS lit up the tunnel as it travelled, a dense mass of white and green searing the air. He saw the projectiles dissolving one by one, fragments in the wake of the blast, and when it connected with the cannon's frame he knew he'd gotten lucky.

He was already setting the impact rail when the explosion rocked the entire tunnel.

"Good God," L.L. muttered, struggling to steady himself against the seat. Over an open channel, he heard Lloyd and Cécile and several others excitedly voicing their congratulations, but he couldn't make out what any particular one of them was saying. "That was…"

"Crazy, I know," he said. A part of him couldn't believe it even worked at all, but it was probably best to keep that to himself.

The explosion had blown a hole through the ceiling of the tunnel, and water was beginning to gush in. He steered the Lancelot towards the hole; it was large enough to fit through, if barely. Docking the VARIS, he tried not to think too much (about how that had almost been _the end_, how he'd come dangerously close to – ) as he eased the unit into a crouch.

"Six-o'clock…what's that?"

The Lancelot had already jumped when he heard L.L.'s warning, but it was the slash harken ensnaring them that brought him crashing back down to earth.

* * *

Kallen knew from the moment she saw the white Knightmare that this wasn't going to end well. She recognized it from the depot; it was hard not to, not when it stood out like a sore thumb in these tunnels and the memory of their first battle, albeit cut short, was still seared into recent memory.

When the pilot began destroying the Sutherlands, as though mocking their efforts between reloading, she realized she was damned either way. Running out of time, she yelled at her comrades to leave the tunnel, egging them to go ahead. She stayed behind, however, and decided that while Colonel Tohdoh was probably going to be displeased if he learned she'd practically stolen his Knightmare, there was just a bit more honor in that than in running away without trying anything.

And so…

"C'mere you bastard!" she shouted, retracting the single harken back into the unit's shoulder. The enemy pilot may have seen the Sutherlands, but he hadn't seen the Guren all the way at the rear of the tunnel.

She'd spent a measly three hours with the manual of the Guren Mk-II. But from where she got the unopened, leather-wrapped booklet, she also found the start-up key. There was very little planning that went into this, she'd admitted to herself as she climbed in. There was only desperation, a blind hope that _if she could buy them even a little time, _then maybe it might be worth something.

The white Knightmare spun around, and she never even saw it draw its swords. She managed to dodge the first one but the other came dangerously close. Holding the massive claw out in front of her, she activated the Radiant Wave Surger (that was what it was called, right?) and squeezed her eyes shut.

She felt…resistance, and something pulsing, trying to push her back. Snapping her eyes open she saw the enemy right in front of her, and the arm was straining as it pushed against the blade.

The Radiant Wave Surger could act as a shield, she realized. That was something to remember.

"_Kallen!_" Yoshida's voice blared through the radio she'd taped to an empty portion of the panel at the last minute. "_Where the hell are you_?"

She barely moved to dodge as the unit drew back and fired its rifle (it was so _fast_), the same one that had destroyed the cannon. "I'll be up in a minute! I just – "

"_You're still in the tunnel?_"

He fired again, and she moved away, letting the bullet whiz past her and explode against the wall. She could do it, she realized. With the Guren, she could match his speed. Determined, Kallen pushed forward, blocking the next shot with the Wave Surger. If she could just get close enough –

She gasped when the enemy pilot actually _flung_ one of his swords at her, and it missed her by inches. But he'd mimicked her movement before she even started, so when she had the Guren running flush against the wall, he was waiting for her there. And he'd already fired his harkens.

"No!" She fought for control as the harkens lashed around the Guren's arms, waist, and left leg. She tried to reverse her direction but the other unit already had too much momentum; she could do nothing but watch, with growing horror, as the white Knightmare glided around her in a wide arc, taking her along. It retracted all of its harkens at the same time, and she screamed as the Guren crashed violently against the wall, its claw trapped and crushed between frame and concrete.

"_Kallen!_"

By the time she could move the controllers again, there were too many error messages on the display, and the white Knightmare was no longer in the tunnel.

* * *

The hierarchy in the Britannian military was there for a reason – it was elaborate, yet efficient, especially when it came to disseminating information. When the Lancelot broke through the last of the terrorists' defenses in the tunnel, every single unit on shore at Lake Kawaguchi found that out within thirty seconds. Ten seconds later, everyone knew that the Lancelot was in a position to sink the hotel, and in another five, Cornelia li Britannia had given her order.

So it was uncanny, then, given the events just prior, that the order was to _withdraw_.

* * *

It was almost eight in the evening when the hostages were freed. The army's rescue units had to send men into the storage room through the air ducts and use a derivative of chaos mines to break down the door. Among the hostages, they came upon two unarmed terrorists sporting dozens of bruises and gashes each; another one, male, was found dead of multiple gunshot wounds to the chest. Everyone else seemed alright – a stretch, considering the hours' worth of trauma each had just suffered – and within minutes the hostages were finally being ferried across the lake by lifeboats.

And when Shirley and Millay stepped on land once more, L.L. and Suzaku were waiting for them.

"Thank goodness you're both all right!" Shirley had run up to him and thrown her arms around his neck before he could react, and L.L. barely remembered to fake a wince; he was still 'wounded,' after all. "Where were you? You had us worried sick!"

"Sorry for the inconvenience," he chuckled, returning the embrace. "But it's good to see you both again. I'm glad you're safe."

Shirley pulled back and smiled at him; it looked as though she were trying not to cry. Shaking her head, she turned to Suzaku and surprised the boy by hugging him as well.

"I'm so sorry," she cried. "You didn't have to do that. I never thought – " Perhaps the hiss of pain didn't go unnoticed, as she released him in alarm and stared, with widened eyes, at the bloodstains on his shirt. "They hurt you. Oh my God, Suzaku I'm so sorry."

"No, I – "

"He got caught in the crossfire," L.L. explained, placing an arm on her shoulder. Reckless as she had been, he didn't want Shirley to blame herself more than she already did. "Both of us did, to some extent. But they're minor injuries; we'll be fine."

This calmed her down somewhat. As Suzaku appeased her further, though, he finally felt Millay's eyes on him, and he steeled himself for a short moment before facing her with a practiced smile.

"What, no hug from you?" he joked.

She looked at him intensely, arms folded across her chest. She didn't seem to be angry, but that only made her gaze all the more unnerving. "How's your shoulder?" she finally asked.

"Promising to be the death of me, but I suppose I had it coming." He was wearing Suzaku's jacket over the sleeveless undershirt of the JLF uniform, and he tugged the ends closer together in a show of self-consciousness. "The medics were able to remove the bullet, but it's still a rather gruesome sight. I'll have it looked at once we get back to the Settlement."

"Emergency room. You go there the _minute_ we arrive, okay?" Millay still didn't smile even as he promised her with a nod, only gesturing meaningfully at Suzaku. "And take him with you."

L.L. shot a glance his way, grateful that there was no blood seeping through the bandage in his neck.

"You know if anything happened to you, Nunnally would never forgive me."

"Millay." He sighed, closing his eyes. "I had no choice. They were starting to kill the hostages. _Someone_ had to be on the outside, to let the military know it was safe to attack."

"So you called them?"

"Well what did you expect me to do?"

She shook her head. "And Suzaku?" she pressed.

"He bought us time. As the son of a collaborator, he was able to sway opinion, if only a little bit. The details seem to be confidential, though, so I'm not certain how that worked out." He sighed. No doubt Suzaku wouldn't appreciate this development once he learned of it, but the alibi was a necessary one. "I found him on an upper floor. We were both out of the hotel by the time the JLF surrendered."

By now all the hostages had disembarked the lifeboats, and they were being escorted by the rescue team back to the main road. Shirley and Suzaku, engaged in a conversation that seemed far less grave than their own, began walking forward, and they followed suit.

"About that…" Millay had let her arms drop, and they were swinging at her sides as they walked. It was an uplifting sight, far less closed and unreadable than her previous posture, but there were still traces of confusion in her features. "What was that all about?"

L.L. frowned. "I'm actually not sure," he said slowly, and he was completely honest this time. "From what I heard, the military had begun an attack through the underground tunnel. The terrorists surrendered soon after that, after which the military ordered a mass-arrest and pull-out."

"Oh." She looked strangely thoughtful. "They knew they didn't have a chance?"

"…Something like that."

But why did Cornelia even bother arresting the terrorists in the first place, instead of eliminating them all in the hotel? Surely a mass, floor-by-floor execution by the Knight-police, followed by a mop-up before the hostages were released, would have taken less time than what they ended up doing. For someone who was so viciously adamant on carrying out the attack on the hotel, to the point that she tolerated zero delay on A.S.E.E.C.'s part, it seemed oddly out of character for her to finish the operation in such a relatively humane approach.

His gaze darkened. Cornelia's order, from the loud and surprisingly hostile declaration that stunned both him and Suzaku inside the Lancelot, had been to withdraw. They were told to immediately stop all hostile engagements with the enemy, and A.S.E.E.C. was told specifically to pull all its forces out of the hotel. And then, as soon as they were out, the Royal Guard swooped in.

The only explanation he could think of – and it was a disgusting one, as well – was that the military planned on torturing these terrorists for information. It certainly didn't seem as though these men he'd seen today comprised the entirety of the JLF's forces, so maybe they were counting on at least one of the terrorists to divulge the location of their base in exchange for a sweetened deal. But in that case, why leave _all_ of them alive?

L.L. frowned to himself. Positive as the overall outcome had been, at the end of the day there seemed to be something off about what just transpired. And it did not sit well with him at all.

"Promise me," Millay's voice broke into his thoughts, and when he looked at her there was finally a hint of a smile on her face, "that you'll never put me through something like that ever again."

He swallowed, and decided not to ask about the terrorists he'd left inside, sharing the room with a dead man and dozens of equally-terrified hostages for God-knew how long. "I promise," he said to her. He hoped he could keep it.

They waited for Shirley's father by the side of the road near the railway terminus, where the pavement gave way to asphalt and the sidewalk was littered with dust and pebbles. Here, they bore witness to other reunions, hostages running to greet approaching cars, tears and smiles and long, fervent embraces.

L.L. spared passing glances as the crowd thinned in groups, families mostly; he saw joy and relief and something shifted inside of him.

He shook his head, letting his gaze drop down, and chuckled softly. (So forty years still wasn't enough, despite his best efforts. But then again – )

"If it makes you feel better, _I_ don't think your shoes look funny."

L.L. turned and met the soldier's gaze with mock incredulity. "Witty. I didn't think you had it in you."

Suzaku looked mildly insulted for a second, before narrowing his eyes. "Careful. I haven't decided if I like you again."

L.L. raised his eyebrows. "'Again'?" he clarified (to which the boy choked and remedied, "_Yet,"_ with a scowl.) He laughed, briefly entertaining the notion of drawing this out further; he eventually decided to let it pass. "The fatigue is getting to you."

He sighed, stuffing his hands into his pockets. There was a telltale slump in his shoulders, a certain dimness in his eyes, that gave him away. "Maybe you're right."

L.L. looked at him for a long while. His injuries were a lot more prominent now that he was no longer wearing his jacket, and on the front of his shirt was a long, jagged tear crusted shut with congealed blood. He wondered if he could drag the boy to a hospital, and how long he would last before giving up if he even tried.

"We were fortunate though, all things considered. Almost all of the hostages escaped unscathed. Given Princess Cornelia's ruthlessness the bloodshed could have been so much worse." It _should_ have been so much worse. "You know what they say about things that end well."

Suzaku merely shrugged, eyes downcast, and L.L. frowned. Either he was _really _tired, or…

"You don't seem happy about it."

"I'm not sure if I did the right thing."

L.L. sighed, and resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Of course, he should have figured it would be something like this. Glancing to the side, he saw Shirley and Millay were some distance away, closer to the pavement and dutifully on the lookout for Mr. Fenette's car; he made sure they were out of earshot before continuing: "That again?"

"I took you with me on a field mission." The words tumbled out of his mouth in a clumsy mess, as though he couldn't quite believe them himself. "_Inside_ the Lancelot."

"I believe Earl Asplund made it clear that the ramifications of that mattered very little to him. I wasn't privy to the details of your mission. We didn't break any protocols as far as – "

"That's not the point!" The sudden outburst surprised him, and although it went unnoticed by everyone else, it seemed to take its toll rather quickly. Suzaku hung his head and mumbled, "The fact is, I put you in danger. I went in there knowing the risks and I…I brought you along anyway."

L.L. decided not to speak right away, instead taking his time to craft a precise reply. Something – perhaps, a nuance in the boy's tone, or his posture, or simply that he'd known the other long enough – told him this went beyond just dragging a civilian into a field mission. And he felt that if he wasn't careful, they would be having repeats of this conversation for several days to come.

"Two points of rebuttal," he finally said. "One, I _coerced_ you into that course of action, don't you recall? And two," he added quickly, before the boy could say 'it doesn't matter': "You keep forgetting. I'm the man from Shinjuku." He lowered his voice until it was barely audible, even to himself. "I would have walked out of there no matter what happened. If anything, the only life you were risking was yours."

Suzaku swallowed, still not meeting his eyes. He didn't speak for a long time. "What if I'd – ?"

"Consider this, if you will." Clearly the fact that L.L. had never really been in danger just wasn't getting through to him, even if it was such a simple thing. "We're just about certain the JLF surrendered upon hearing that the Lancelot was able to break through the tunnel. You paved the way for the rest of the military to come in, and Princess Cornelia smelled blood." Not that she acted on it, though; try as he might, he just _could not_ shake this inconsistency from his head. "What if you _had_ made that detour and, in the time you'd wasted, the JLF killed another hostage?"

At last, L.L. saw a glimmer of realization pass over the boy's face. "I – "

"What if it was Shirley?"

That shut him up. Suzaku closed his mouth and stared hard at the ground, and when L.L. looked closely it seemed like he was clenching his jaw. He couldn't see if he'd fisted his hands, but he imagined they were shaking.

He let out a sigh, relieved that they'd at least transcended that thought. It was still quite disconcerting though, and if possible it made even less sense than Cornelia's pull-out: they both acknowledged (at least one of them, with a prior _vehemence_, even) that Suzaku had been manipulated into the actions he'd taken today. And yet despite that, he insisted on carrying the blame – for mere _what-if_'s, for consequences that never materialized anyway – himself. And from the way they'd been speaking just earlier, he began to suspect that no matter how this hostage situation was resolved, Suzaku would have still wound up contrite, one way or another, at the end of the day.

Studying the boy, his face partly obscured by hair and shadow, he felt a darker thought creeping into his mind: all that anger he'd seen earlier, and all this guilt now – could they be connected somehow, and where were they all coming from?

"Speaking of Shirley…and I'm only going to say this once." L.L. decided those were questions for another day, and rather than obsess over them as he would invariably end up doing some other time, right now he'd rather do this: "What you did today, that stunt you pulled to save her – that was rather brave."

Suzaku finally looked up at him, surprised. For a few seconds he looked completely lost, and L.L. waited for him to process what he'd just said. "Not stupid and reckless anymore?" he smiled, features melting as he did so.

"Both of those, still." The change was rather startling; L.L. blinked and suddenly found himself wanting to deconstruct that smile, how it lit up his eyes, why it made Suzaku suddenly seem like a completely different person. "But, commendable." He shook his head, scowling at having to reorganize his thoughts. "Hauling me against my will across a steel cable to the other side of the lake, not so much."

"Well," he let out a little laugh, embarrassed. "You blackmailed me into taking you along for the rest of the ride anyway."

"Point." L.L. raised an eyebrow. He recognized the third among the line of cars entering the road from afar, and before Shirley or Millay could call them over, he stepped forward and extended his hand. "Call it even, Warrant Officer Kururugi?"

The boy looked at his hand before breaking into a grin. Foregoing the proffered handshake – "_Suzaku_," he corrected, an impish glint in his eye – he gave L.L. a casual low-five.

* * *

_This is a transcription of the communication between Princess Cornelia li Britannia and an unidentified man suspected to be Kyoshiro Tohdoh of the Japanese Liberation Front. It also includes several contributions from unspecified sources, all of which were physically present at the Lake Kawaguchi Convention Center Hotel. The communication was made over a private audio channel set-up between Princess Cornelia's customized Gloucester and (Tohdoh's?) radio at the hotel's penthouse suite._

_**6:41 pm**…_

_RPI-00: I've no time to waste on trivial matters. State your name and business and pray it's worth my while._

_KCCH: Princess Cornelia, good evening. Thank you for allowing this link. It shows character._

_**6:42 pm**…_

_RPI-00: …And to whom am I speaking?_

_KCCH: My name is of little consequence…at least, far less than the fact that I've relieved Lt. Col. Kusakabe of his command in this operation. _

_RPI-00: (laughing) What an unfortunate burden to inherit. Britannia shows no forgiveness to perpetrators of terrorism, and you and your men are minutes away from complete annihilation. A fitting end for (garbled) Liberation Front._

_KCCH: It does seem that way, Princess._

_RPI-00: Then this conversation serves no purpose. (channel disconnected)_

_**6:44 pm**…_

_RPI-00: Persistent, aren't we? Does this mean you've decided to surrender?_

_KCCH: If there was a chance that my men and I would be spared in that event, then I would consider it. But we both know better than that._

_RPI-00: (chuckling) In that case, spare us both the indignity and die fighting like a true warrior. Scum as you are…at least, that kind of defeat, I will respect._

_KCCH: I would want no better death than what you just described._

_**6:45 pm**…_

_KCCH: …But tonight we've no intention of simply dying in vain, Princess. _

_RPI-00: Oh?_

_**6:47 pm**…_

_KCCH: What did you say your name was?_

_(?): Ougi, sir. Ougi Kaname._

_KCCH: Very well, Ougi-san. Kindly establish a private video-link with Her Highness and bring me the bag. _

_RPI-00: What nonsense is this? If you're merely stalling for time, I'll have you know – _

_KCCH: Please accept the video link, Princess._

_(NOTE: The request above refers to a separate video-link through which the man called Ougi presented contents of said bag: a cylindrical canister with an almost-fluorescent, greenish glow.)_

_RPI-00: YOU (vulgar) DEMONS!_

_**6:48pm**…_

_RPI-00: The same deplorable tactics those terrorists used at the service depot!_

_KCCH: Not quite, Princess. Those men were bluffing. Clearly I am not._

_RPI-00: Then you must be mad. Surely you know using that will kill all of you inside the hotel!_

_KCCH: I know that very well. I also know, however, that you have at least one unit currently trying to break through the underground tunnel. It sounds as though he's about to succeed. You yourself said that Britannia will show us no forgiveness once we are apprehended, so you see I am left with very few options._

_RPI-00: (snarling) Then your last stand is a shameful suicide attack?_

_KCCH: An unwinnable battle yields no outcome that doesn't end in shame. Consider this a courtesy, Princess, from one commander to another. _

_**6:49pm**…_

_KCCH: When the tunnel's defense falls, this canister breaks. Surely I don't need to specify on which floor that will take place._

_**6:51pm**…_

_RPI-00: All right, you fiend. What are your demands?_

_KCCH: I already told you. This is simply a courtesy – _

_RPI-00: Don't give me that (vulgar)! _

_KCCH: Our defenses can only hold out for so long. When you come in, my men and I will all die. If I release this gas, the only difference will be that the hostages die with us._

_RPI-00: (vulgar) Eleven COWARDS!_

_KCCH: Yes. Normally I loathe stooping to such base tactics. I am not proud of this. But as you said, it was a difficult burden to inherit. As much as possible I want my men to live. Evidently you want the hostages to live; if they die, it would be a black mark on the military's fine reputation._

_**6:52 pm**…_

_KCCH: Or is it something else, I wonder?_

_RPI-00: …_

_KCCH: …Then I was correct. There is at least one among those hostages who is more than a VIP. That explains why, despite your vastly superior firepower, you chose investment over a direct charge. This only confirms that._

_RPI-00: (muttered) I ought to find your filthy hideout and raze it to the ground._

_KCCH: Perhaps another day. For now: negotiate with me, Princess. Let's not allow this to turn into a massacre._

_**6:53pm**…_

_(?): Colonel! The White Knightmare is still advancing! The men below are preparing to release the quad-links on the Raikou!_

_KCCH: Princess?_

_RPI-00: (seethed) Your demands._

_KCCH: Very generous. Then, I'd like you to call off your forces immediately, especially that unit wreaking havoc on some of my best soldiers. We'd like the tunnel to remain intact if my men and I are to return to the mainland discreetly._

_RPI-00: (laughing) And why in God's name would you want that? Why not rub your honorless victory in the face of the world?_

_KCCH: Because you will report that we surrendered. _

_**6:54pm**…_

_RPI-00: …What?_

_**6:55pm**…_

_KCCH: A victory known to the people is no longer my goal. It became unattainable the moment you ordered that monstrosity into the tunnels. But I would like to save what is left of my men, and if doing so requires that the reputation of the JLF take a hit to the eyes of the world, then so be it. _

_RPI-00: Then, you're willing to make it seem as though you lost?_

_KCCH: I will order my men to evacuate the hotel completely, and we will leave the hostages behind for your forces to rescue in whatever manner you see fit. We all came in civilian vehicles; if you declare that all the terrorists were arrested, the reporters won't know the difference so long as you prohibit access to the tunnel. Also, I'd like my subordinate back – the one you have in custody._

_RPI-00: The truck driver._

_KCCH: Yes._

_RPI-00: …And what makes you think we'll just let you walk free?_

_KCCH: I will be holding on to this canister, provided I never have to use it. When this transmission ends, you will have no idea where I am. In the interest of preventing a massacre, you WILL let us walk free._

_(NOTE: At this point a muted explosion is heard from somewhere in the lower levels. The hotel building shakes a little, and the audio channel is filled with a burst of static.)_

_RPI-00: …as the one who ordered the demonstration?_

_KCCH: I fail to see how that affects anything, Princess._

_**6:57pm**…_

_RPI-00: …You are a strange one, aren't you?_

_KCCH: …_

_RPI-00: So be it. Salvage your pitiful soldiers and whatever is left of your dignity. _

_KCCH: Thank you, Princess._

_RPI-00: But I won't forget this, Eleven scum. Mark my words; before this year is through I'll have turned you all to ash._

_KCCH: … (channel disconnected)_

Diethard smiled to himself as he pulled the last page out of the printer. After making sure they were all in the right order, he stapled the transcript to the accompanying article he'd written and felt a little surge of delight.

When that brooding Colonel – he was almost _positive_ it was Tohdoh from Itsukushima now, but he wasn't completely sure – had asked for an audio-link to Princess Cornelia's unit, he suddenly had the feeling he was about to witness something remarkable. And the man had delivered in spades.

Making a proposal like that and having it pay off so beautifully – it was nothing short of _marvelous_, and he couldn't wait to get the real story out. He'd thought about entitling his report '_The Miracle at Kawaguchi_,' before deciding that had been no miracle at all: just a mix of genius, timing, and sheer moxie. It excited him, and it was the first time he'd felt this way since…

The bubble burst, just as he'd finished sealing the envelope, addressed to his station manager. He hadn't felt this way for a long time, since he started working at Hi-TV.

Precisely what made Britannia boring to him now also made her predictable: what would she do if the truth came out? It had only been thirty-six hours since the official time of the hostages' release, his own included, but the military had already released a statement before midnight that very day: that 'after seeing the show of force by the courageous Royal Guard charging through the supplies tunnel, the JLF opted for an unconditional surrender.'

The Knight-police corroborated the story half an hour later. And the hotel personnel confirmed it that next morning.

Diethard clutched the envelope, fighting back his frustration. They'd already demoted him for breaking protocol at the lake, and didn't believe him when he told them he was being held hostage. No-one from the military was willing to back him up. What, then, would happen to him if he tried to publish this story at all, especially in a Britannian newspaper?

_Britannia believed in survival of the fittest – evolution, a device that often took millions of years to produce results. She would never embrace a sudden, radical change; she lived to perpetuate the status quo, because that was what was tried and tested and true. All else be damned._

It was a good thing his new office didn't have a smoke detector, Diethard thought to himself, as he took out a lighter and brought its flame to a corner of the envelope.

* * *

Notes for Chapter 8:

- _On the chapter title:_ In poker, to go 'all in' means a player is betting the entire remainder of his stake.

- _Technical stuff: _It probably goes without saying, but in the situations above, terms like 'demonstration' and 'investment' (and there might have been others; I forget) were used in purely military context. In any case it's funny how these words take on entirely different and sometimes unintuitive meanings, when used in this manner.

- This is the first chapter (or, come to think of it: first _anything_) in which I scrapped a draft entirely and started from scratch. I'd…like to think it was the right choice to make.

Reviewers between Chapter 7 and now! – **Drakyndra, fra, SecondtoNon, ****Mithluin, orangeducttape, terracannon876, IchiHichi1200, Allora Gale, Dens, Insane But Happy, GreenOnBlack, Persephone1, unspoken . command, ishala8, Adiane, AngelicDemon97, Seriyuu, Mystra-chan06, nachan, EsmeTyler, Moonlight Hitokiri, simply anonymous, Altair718, girru, FeatherxxDreams, Ancr, L. Lamperouge, Silencian, blackash, **and **Strange and Intoxicating -rsa-** – I adore you all and can't thank you enough. Review-responses are on my journal, and there's a handy link in my profile if you want to check it out.

I confess: this was difficult. If the long delay (I am _so _sorry about this) didn't give that away, then the fact that I had to resort to extreme measures (look up) probably will. For those who offered encouragement on LJ: thank you all as well, for keeping me sane. Looking at it now…I don't even know anymore. But I gave it my best, and while I'm glad it's over I really hope, with every last fiber of my being, that it delivered.

Next chapter: It is sometimes difficult to predict the results of our actions. Sometimes even the best intentions are corrupted by their benefactors, leading to disastrous consequences. This is a truth already well-known by one of our main players. But to another, it will be a difficult lesson learned. (_Stage 09: Those Who Desecrate_)

Thank you so much for reading. Feedback and pastries would be greatly appreciated =).


	9. Stage 09: Those Who Desecrate

Disclaimer: _Code Geass_ – with its characters, settings, and all other borrowed elements here – is the sole property of its creators. I do this purely for my own entertainment, and (hopefully) that of my readers as well.

Opening lines of this chapter are taken from Sara Bareilles' _King of Anything_. Oh, and for those who are curious about where all these blurbs come from, I've put all the relevant songs in a playlist and will be updating it as I go. Link is in my profile.

Warnings for this chapter: Language and _violence_, although the worst of it is off-screen. More of Suzaku being slightly (rather, completely) messed-up-in-the-head.

Enjoy!

* * *

He was certainly just as agile, if not more so, in the water.

L.L. looked up from the screen of his laptop as a quiet splash rang in the air. He watched Suzaku glide underwater for a few moments, and noted how the boy made it seem so effortless as well. He didn't break the surface again until he was already halfway across the length of the pool.

The complex was entirely abandoned at this time – 7 p.m., after all, was an odd hour to find students loitering on campus unless it involved one of Millay's extravagant events. Apparently, Suzaku planned on taking his extracurriculars seriously, to which he had no objections. What he _did_ object to was the fact that Suzaku planned to swim with the bandages around his torso and neck still very much intact, and he doubted that the boy's injuries from that incident at Lake Kawaguchi had had enough time to heal completely.

Of course, the fact that Suzaku was currently in the water spoke enough about how _that_ discussion turned out. The stubborn idiot.

"Last chance. You sure you don't want in?" Suzaku had kicked away from the wall and was now making his way back across by floating face-up. He must have noticed L.L. staring. "The water's a lot warmer than it looks."

"Pass." L.L. finally tore his gaze away and turned back to his laptop screen. "And wrap it up, I'm hungry." Honestly, he couldn't even remember _Shirley_ ever training at the pool this late, and she was one of the most dedicated students he knew.

Then again, Shirley wasn't a full-time soldier of the Britannian military, either.

That thought brought him back to his current endeavor: staring at blocks upon blocks of text reporting the recent hotel-jacking, and the rescue mission that followed. He knew he really shouldn't be obsessing over this anymore – the incident was over, with surprisingly few casualties, and he and the rest of the hostages had been quite fortunate. Things could have been so much worse. The course of action Princess Cornelia followed was unexpectedly humane, but that was exactly what bothered him.

There had to be something. There had to be _something._

Several more splashes broke the silence, and then Suzaku was already standing at the edge of the pool. He had his head bent down, and was shaking some of the water out of his hair. "Pass me a towel, please?"

L.L. took one of the folded towels stacked on top of the table and tossed it his way. Water slid in drops and little rivulets down his arms and legs, and some of them traced the paths of scars – old ones, L.L. supposed, like the cut on Suzaku's left thigh, or the one running along his upper arm, or the strangely-shaped scar on his shoulder. A part of him wanted to ask about them, but he supposed this was neither the place nor the time.

Shaking his head, he had to force himself to refocus on the task at hand.

It was more than a little difficult, though, given how little he had to work with. The news reports, from all the local networks and even some of the foreign ones, all narrated the same thing: the Royal Guard's stunning performance (false), the surrender, the rescue. He supposed he should have expected this much from the media, but even the military's database was proving useless. He'd tried probing for transcripts or drafts of incident reports – the less 'official,' the better. But while he was able to clear all the security protocols, all his efforts proved futile when he realized there was literally _nothing_ to see.

And this unsettled him. If that mission truly had been as glorious as the news reports made it out to be, why had the military wiped their own records clean? Given Cornelia's unforgiving nature, he doubted there had never been any records at all. And even if that were so, where were the people in the media getting their facts?

L.L. eventually realized he could answer neither of those questions with only assumptions and no data, which was about the same time he felt the drops of water landing on his shoulder, from above. "You know," he began, quickly closing the browser window, "I can't speak for society as a whole, but I'm willing to wager most of the populace would find what you're doing rude?"

"Actually, I'm all fogged-up. I can't see anything," Suzaku admitted. He pushed his goggles up against his forehead, but turned away dutifully as he resumed drying his hair. "What are you working so hard on, anyway?"

L.L. scoffed. "Haven't we already established what I do? If I'm not gambling, or teaching, then clearly I'm not working."

Suzaku frowned at that, letting the towel hang around his neck. Although it was still damp, his hair had returned to its usual mess of curls. "Can't you just stick to the second one? Gambling doesn't sound very reliable…and is it even legal?"

"You sound like Millay." With a sigh he handed Suzaku his school bag and another towel. Mildly irritating as the sentiment was, at least he was successful in deflecting the original question. "Now hurry and get changed, before I seriously contemplate leaving you here."

Suzaku rolled his eyes, rummaging through the bag for his uniform. "Yes, my lord."

Perhaps on any other day, and with any other person, he would have resisted that set-up. But – "And bring me a cappuccino and a newspaper while you're at it, thanks."

L.L. held out an arm to block the wet, rolled-up towel from hitting him in the face, and when his laptop finally shut down its screen mirrored a smirk he couldn't quite hold back.

* * *

**.**

_You sound so innocent_

_All full of good intent_

_Swear you know best _

_But you expect me to_

_Jump up on board with you_

_And ride off into your delusional sunset_

**.**

**Bird's-Eye View**

Stage 09

**. : Those Who Desecrate : .**

It had already been several days, but only now did the station manager at Hi-TV pay Diethard an actual visit. And his first words since then were neither 'hello' nor some variant of it, but rather: "Do you want your old office back?"

Immediately Diethard pushed himself away from his computer, and from the half-hearted report he was doing on the upcoming opening ceremony of some art gallery. "I'm listening," he said, with just the slightest hint of a nod.

The suggested outline was already a good four and a half pages long, but Diethard never even made it past the title and gist.

"The downfall of the Japanese Liberation Front." He glanced up at his station manager, waiting for the telltale hints of a coming punch line (because his colleagues weren't above that, no) only to find none. "Am I missing something here?"

"Look at the date."

And he did, which was when he noticed that the article wasn't due for another six days. "You want me to make a pre-emptive report?" he asked, just to be clear. "On – "

"You've done pre-emptive obituaries before," the manager reminded him. Indeed he had – articles and sometimes video features eulogizing royals and members of Britannian high society deemed worthy of such an honor, just in case one of them kicked the bucket prematurely. "This should be something more exciting. Gibson's team will be on the field that day for quotes and photos, but everything else…" He lifted the outline off the table, carded through the pages once and then dropped it back down. "Is all you."

Diethard waited until the man had left before touching the papers again.

The opening blurb would set the mood: _Narita_, the indented comment read, _early morning and mountains, anticipation and – make it as tantalizing as you can_. Next would follow a section on the 'who's-who' and 'what's-what' of the Japanese Liberation Front: _make it read like a story_, he was told, unnecessarily, and _this_ was why he was being given this assignment in advance. The JLF hadn't exactly been very prolific over the past seven years, so although they were considered the biggest threat to Britannian rule in Area 11, that really wasn't saying much at all. And it wasn't surprising that the public's awareness of this resistance group was very basic, fuelled by lukewarm interest: he would have to weave a sensational tale, probably embellish _some _things quite a bit, and cast the rebels completely as villains by the end of this part.

Of course, he could do that simply by bringing up the previous weekend's hotel-jacking – bullet point 2-5 said as much, he noticed wryly.

And then the part that _really_ mattered, section three: come the weekend, the Britannian military was going to launch a day-long campaign, led by no less than Princess Cornelia herself, to the mountainous region of Narita where the JLF's main headquarters lay. And so the last, feeble hope of a radical independent Japan would die in a blaze of fire and a pillar of smoke (point 3-11).

The rest of it was all pomp and filler, as expected. Of course, he wouldn't be expected to discuss the military's strategies in detail, not that he _could_ even if he wanted to. He was no stranger to requests like this, which was probably why this was on _his_ desk, and not anyone else's, in the first place.

Diethard glanced at his calendar. He had six days. If he started now, he could finish all the pre-written parts by Friday, no problem. And if he wrote skeleton notes for the later sections beforehand, leaving spaces only for direct quotes and photo captions, he was confident the finished product would be ready well before Sunday noon.

That wasn't the problem, no.

The problem was, while he could easily whip up a victory story that the masses would salivate over, it was going to be _boring_.

Britannia was going to send troops to storm the JLF's hideout. Princess Cornelia obviously wanted payback for that incident at Lake Kawaguchi, and would be even more ruthless and competent than usual. Old Eleven soldiers would die. Britannian soldiers would be exalted; there would be promotions and medals. Everything would unfold like a perfectly-written script with just enough drama to reel the public in, and Britannia was so good at staging these by now that, from this side of the newsroom, it was positively sickening.

...Or perhaps there were other motivations, really. No, there had to be, for what he was about to do – for what he was _doing_, after he'd locked the door to his office, leafed through several previous issues of their sister company's newspaper, and placed a call on his personal phone.

"The name of the girl who was captured after the incident at Shinjuku – yes. Yes, if you please. …What?" Diethard straightened up and grabbed a pen from an inside pocket of his jacket as he asked, "How do you spell 'Stadtfeld'?"

* * *

Normally Kallen would have been the furthest thing from thrilled to find herself back in school so soon after their latest mission. She understood the need to lie low for a while – _wait out all this heat_, as Ohgi would often put it – but it didn't make the ordeal any less insufferable.

Today, however, she at least had a purpose. She made up her mind when she saw the brunet slide into his seat a little after lunch, having cut all of their morning classes and barely making it on time for fifth period. She didn't try to meet his eye then – she had an act to maintain, after all, and passing a note would run the risk of the message being intercepted. But she decided she had to talk to him before the day ended, which was why she found herself wandering by the pool at just before five in the afternoon.

She wasn't sure, however, what possessed her to call out his name just as he was about to kick off the board. Startled, Suzaku messed up his dive completely, and Kallen found herself drenched in the ensuing splash, all the while thinking, _that had to hurt._

"Sorry." She crouched down and pushed wet hair out of her eyes as he swam over, both of them ignoring the laughs and jeers from the rest of the men's swim team. "I probably could have timed that better. But, I was wondering if you could walk me to the hospital? If it's not too much trouble, of course."

That killed the ruckus completely.

It was surprisingly nice outside, for this hour. Although the morning forecast had called for rain, there was none of that now, with late sunshine bathing the parks and roads. The breeze had picked up pace, though; Suzaku's black-and-gold uniform tunic swam on her, but she pulled it close, grateful for the extra warmth.

The hospital was still several minutes away, and small talk had been surprisingly comfortable. But she figured she may as well get it out of the way now: "They've been talking about you, you know."

Suzaku blinked at her curiously. "They've been talking about me?"

Kallen nodded. "Ever since word got out that you volunteered yourself to the terrorists' commander. Is that true?"

For a long time he just kept walking with his brows furrowed at the ground, as though he couldn't make sense of what she'd just said. "Wait, was this on the news?"

"No. There weren't any reporters allowed inside after the JLF made their statement…that is, from what I've heard at least." She hadn't tacked on that last part as quickly as she would have liked (_damn it_), but he didn't seem to notice. "But some of the more high-profile hostages and military personnel gave statements over the weekend, and a lot of them said as much."

"They…they didn't mention my name, did they?"

Kallen shook her head. "Only that an Eleven travelling with a group of Britannian students made the move. So is it true?" She stole a glance his way, and if he looked confused before, his expression was only troubled now. She supposed she didn't have to wonder why that was so. "I've tried asking Millay and Shirley, but they kept referring me back to you."

"No-one's ever asked me about it," Suzaku murmured. He frowned, before turning to meet her gaze. "Is this why you wanted me to walk with you?"

"Are you ever going to answer my question?"

Again, he just kept walking. But they were forced to stop at an intersection, and as they waited for the light to change he finally gave in with a sigh. "Yes. It's true."

She'd already suspected as much, if truth be told. The weekend ordeal had turned Millay and Shirley into veritable celebrities overnight, with students and even some of the younger faculty members eagerly requesting an account of the events that had transpired. Apparently there had been another man with them – Nunnally's tutor, or someone like that. And of course, _Suzaku_, but while the girls were consistently vague about his involvement in the situation, Kallen could never quite tell if it was because they really knew that little, or because they weren't allowed to say as much.

That day, she'd been so cut off from the rest of the rebels in the upper floors – she'd had no idea her classmates were even at the hotel, much less that one of them had surrendered himself to the JLF. She wondered, had she been privy to that knowledge, if it would have swayed her.

But the thought was an unsettling one. "What did you have on them?" she asked instead.

"What?"

"You had to have _something_. Otherwise, why would they even listen to you?"

"It wasn't me. It was…" Suzaku caught himself and shook his head. His eyes were pleading. "Kallen. Can we talk about something else, please?"

"I heard your father's a collaborator." She pressed on, despite his earlier entreaty. Not that she enjoyed his obvious discomfort, but damn it, she wanted to make _sense_ of it all. "You told me he was dead."

"He is."

_What?_ "If you're still lying – !"

"I'm not." A flash of anger crossed his face for a moment, and she wondered if she'd pushed too hard. But just as quickly it was gone, replaced by a kind of quiet resignation. "I'm not. He…"

A long pause followed, in which he seemed to struggle to compose himself. He shifted his grip on her textbooks.

"Those men knew my father," he said at last. "Some of them went way back, and so…that was enough, somehow."

'Way back.' Most of the members of the JLF were from the old Japanese military, before Britannian rule – had Suzaku's father been a soldier as well? And if their ties had indeed been that strong, why did he decide to collaborate in the first place? …Damn it, this was only making it _worse_.

Kallen shook her head. Besides, she didn't come into this conversation with the sole intent of asking Suzaku about his father. "Do you know what they're saying about you?" At his blank stare, she continued: "They're saying you sold out. Some think you offered to cooperate with the terrorists in exchange for your own protection. Others even believe you were with them from the start."

"What?" His eyes widened, and he actually faltered in his step. "No, I – they're saying that?"

"More than you'd think. You really are oblivious, aren't you?" So Suzaku didn't spend an awful lot of time at school – he tended to skip out a lot, for whatever reason (although, she could think of a few). Still, she found it hard to imagine he hadn't at least heard some of the nasty, often ludicrous rumors spreading around him, _about_ him. "Is _that_ true?"

Suzaku shook his head, earnestly. "I wouldn't. I'd never betray Britannia like that."

_But you would betray Japan?_ It came as her mind's knee-jerk response, and briefly Kallen wondered where it came from.

On some level she knew she was jumping to conclusions – it had been his father's choice, not Suzaku's, to side with their oppressors. But it certainly didn't help that the more this conversation progressed, the more Kallen realized she really had no idea _who_ Suzaku was.

She doubted it, but if there was _any_ truth to those rumors – at this point she truly, honestly didn't know if that would make her dislike him, or admire him.

"I don't understand it, you know." Suzaku gave her a questioning glance, and she frowned. "Those who collaborate with this government. It just doesn't make _sense_ to me."

She tried to gauge his reaction without turning her head. But it was too hard to see anything in her peripheral vision, especially when he chose to look at the ground. "Maybe there wasn't any other choice," he said.

"There's _always_ another choice." No other choice – what on earth was he talking about? "Anything would be better than bowing down to the people who oppressed you." And before he could ask the obvious _'But aren't you Britannian?'_ she added, "Generally speaking. This goes for everyone, Britannians or Numbers. The Japanese should have put up more of a fight – for their dignity, if nothing else."

For a while after that neither of them spoke. The top of the hospital building was in view now, peeking above half-finished houses sitting in a construction site nearby. Even if the structures were in the early stages, little more than insulation on skeletons of wood, she could see they were going to be big houses. A sign near the edge of the lot closest to the sidewalk proclaimed that all units had been pre-bought; it was to be expected, she supposed, given such a nice location.

She imagined what fine houses these would be once they were completed, and tried not to put that image side-by-side with that of the Shinjuku ghetto, in her head.

"Can I ask you something, then?" Suzaku's voice was softer now, and he seemed pensive. "What do you think of Prime Minister Kururugi, and what he did?"

"That was…" She had to think about it for a bit; she had to make sure what came out of her mouth was something Kallen _Stadtfeld_ would conceivably say. "Disappointing. It was good for Britannia, of course, but he left his people when they needed him the most. If he wanted to make a point, he could have found another way."

"What would you have done?"

"Me?" Her answer was ready long ago. "I'd have fought to the death."

"Even if the war was unwinnable?" he pressed. "Even if you'd end up with a massacre?"

"And how do you know that?" she shot back. "What about Itsukushima? Or what happened at – " Kallen stopped herself when she realized she was about to say 'Lake Kawaguchi', because _no_. Officially, the JLF lost that campaign. And officially, she would know nothing more. "It wasn't all one-sided," she recovered. "For someone who's Japanese, you don't seem to have a lot of faith in your own people."

Suzaku shook his head. "One incident doesn't justify continuing a needless war."

"Then what would _you_ have done?" Kallen stopped walking altogether, and turned around to face him completely. She was dimly aware that she was starting to get agitated, that her voice was slipping away from its usual demure, detached softness. And they were effectively having a heated discussion, which could very well degrade into an argument, in the middle of the city. But it was too late to turn back now, and she felt as though she needed to _know_. "Do you honestly think everything worked out for the best?"

"It stopped the war." Suzaku stood in place as well, a couple of feet away from her. To her frustration, she couldn't read his neutral posture and carefully blank face. "It stopped more people from dying."

Kallen found this so ludicrous she forgot to ask him what 'it' he was referring to. "You can't be serious. Look around you. People treated like scum in their own country – seven years and counting! And you're telling me you're honestly _fine_ with all this? You call _this _peace?"

"I'll take it," and here his eyes hardened ever so slightly, "if the alternative is a country in pieces."

They were standing on a sidewalk, the edge of the construction site to her left and the street to her right. The park they'd just exited was just a stone's throw away.

After she slapped him, the faraway shrieks of laughing, playing children seemed entirely too loud.

"I've offended you." Suzaku didn't look back up to meet her eyes; he kept his gaze nailed to the pavement beneath their feet as he mumbled out, "I apologize."

"Save it." Her cheeks and ears burned. She supposed it was fortunate he wasn't asking her any questions – especially after _that_ outburst – but for some reason this made her want to slap him as well. And she wasn't sure why. "I can walk the rest of the way. See you tomorrow."

Kallen grabbed her books from him more roughly than she'd intended, before stalking off. He let her do as she pleased, and he didn't follow her.

And it was only much later, when she was sitting by her mother's bedside – with the woman's rough, pale hand clasped in hers and marred with teardrops as Kallen promised she would _fight_ – that she realized she still had Suzaku's Ashford tunic draped over her shoulders.

* * *

Sitting at the large table in the center of the Student Council room, Shirley found she wasn't so much beaming at the two tickets set out before her, as she was _glaring_ at them.

It wasn't always like this. When she'd opened the envelope – sneakily, behind her upright Biology book, because although she'd resolved not to do so until lunch break she realized she just _couldn't_ wait – the concert tickets her father had enclosed almost triggered a squeal. That had been several hours ago, though.

And now that she'd had time to actually _think_ about it, the gift was causing her nothing but trouble, because –

"Oho, _still_ haven't decided?"

Millay's sunny voice as she sauntered in did nothing for Shirley's dilemma. "No," she admitted miserably, holding her head in her hands.

"Here's what you do," Millay laughed as she parked herself into the chair opposite Shirley's. She propped her arms up against the table, laced her fingers together and rested her chin on her hands. She then leaned in as though she were about to dispense a very important piece of advice: "Just flip a coin."

Shirley groaned. "Madame President, I can't make this decision based on _that!_"

"I don't see why not. Heads, it's L.L., tails – "

"Madame _President_ – "

"All right, all right." Millay unlinked her hands and lifted them up in mock-surrender. "I'll tell you one thing, though, all jokes aside: if you invite Suzaku, you might be asking for trouble."

Shirley heaved a sigh. She'd been afraid of that, and hearing it from another person didn't seem to help.

Had these tickets arrived just a week ago, she wouldn't even _be_ in this predicament.

If she was going to be honest with herself, she'd have to say Nunnally's quiet tutor caught her eye from day one: his charm, the way he carried himself, how he seemed so sure of whatever he was talking about. It wasn't just that he was _that _good-looking, though that helped too. And while she knew precious little about L.L., really – she rarely saw him outside of the clubhouse, and that trip to Lake Kawaguchi had been the only time they'd spent together without Nunnally – she was hoping this concert would be her chance to change that, get to know more of this man.

(But then Suzaku had entered the picture – Suzaku, who was sweet, unassuming, soft-spoken even after he broke one record after another on the men's swim team. Suzaku, who was easy to befriend if anyone gave him the chance, but couldn't prove it because no-one would. Suzaku, who had saved her at Lake Kawaguchi without thought for himself when she was so certain she was in for the worst.)

"He's an Honorary Britannian though, isn't he?" she said, eyes downcast. "That should make a difference, right?"

"It should," Millay agreed. And she looked almost sad as she did. "But some people just don't see that. If he's already having this much of a hard time at school, can you imagine the reactions you'll get if you walk into a theater with him? And what would Mister Fenette say?"

Shirley hadn't thought of that. She imagined telling her father, over the phone, exactly who would be claiming the second ticket to the show with her, and…well, she didn't want to conjure up exact words, but she guessed he wouldn't be too happy with her choice of a companion.

"Maybe if he doesn't ask…" Then she shook her head. "Who would _you_ take?" she asked instead, shifting gears.

Millay only laughed at that. She took a stack of papers from her bag – Geography homework, from the looks of it – but there was a mischievous gleam in her eye when she reached for a pen. "Wouldn't you like to know."

"I – I didn't mean it like _that_." An unwelcome blush crept up her cheeks. "I meant, if you were me."

"Hmmm." The blonde flipped through several pages without looking up, a smile still stuck on her face. "I imagine L.L. enjoys classical music more. Does that help?"

"Probably." If she was going to take one of them to the concert, she had to at least make sure there was reason to believe that boy would enjoy it. Although, she had no idea what Suzaku's music tastes were like, come to think of it. "What if Lulu thinks I'm too young for him?"

Millay raised an eyebrow. "…There's that," she said, and Shirley could see how her concern made sense. The man had been tutoring Nunnally for quite a while now; he had to be, what, at least twenty-five?

He didn't look it, though, which may have been part of the appeal?

"Though if you're afraid of rejection…" Millay stopped and pushed her homework away; clearly immersing herself in Shirley's love life (or…what approximated it, at least) was far more interesting to her. "Then you should go with Suzaku."

Shirley bit her lip. "You think Lulu is out of my league, huh?"

"I didn't say that." Millay rolled her eyes with a huff. "I'm just saying. L.L. can turn you down, but Suzaku can't. Because…you know…" But she _didn't_, and just blinked at Millay in confusion, to which the older girl sighed and gave in. "He knows his place."

Millay had worn an unhappy expression as she said those words, and Shirley found herself cringing as well. She knew how unforgiving the system was, but… "I don't want him to come with me if he doesn't want to!"

"Then problem solved! L.L. it is."

"But…what if Suzaku _does _want to?"

This time it was Millay's turn to groan. "You're making this so complicated!" she admonished. The first bell rang, and she squeaked at that, gathering up her books. "And now I have to go. Honestly Shirley, you're obsessing over this too much. Pick Rivalz."

Shirley frowned; unlike Millay, she had this next period free. "But I – "

"Or you know…" Millay paused at the door, half-in and half-out of the room, and shot her a sly grin. "Give them _both_ of the tickets, and have them go together. Win-win?"

"Madame President!" Shirley folded her arms across her chest and shot her an indignant pout, but Millay was already laughing and waving goodbye. "You were no help!" she called out, just for good measure.

But ten minutes later, halfway through the second bell, Shirley just gave up and fished through the coins in her purse.

* * *

Suzaku had to navigate the rest of the way back on auto-pilot, because the bulk of his mind was currently occupied.

Britannia's invasion of his homeland was seven years ago, and yet sometimes he felt as though the consequences were no less potent now than they were then. Always, _always,_ it would pop up just when he was getting a bit too close to that threshold of acceptance – seven years ago, with his country torn up by war, he made a choice.

He made a choice.

Suzaku always knew the path he'd chosen wasn't the only one – the recent surge in terrorism was more than enough evidence of that. And his father had advocated another, and he'd made it perfectly clear – _'Enough. What can a ten-year-old possibly hope to know about war?' – _whose word carried more weight.

(But he saw that people were dying in scores by the hour. He saw that Britannia's seven-tonne machines housed men who weren't above shooting down enemy soldiers who were merely on foot. He saw his country turn into a wasteland overnight while their conquerors hailed from home an ocean away, and wasn't this enough?)

He always thought it was. Or, he _told_ himself that it was. One of those was true, and as he grew older, he slowly came to realize there was a difference.

"Excuse me?"

It took a while before Suzaku heard that, and when he did he was already about to enter the park proper, barely at the edge of the construction site. Frowning, he scanned the area for the source of that voice. His eyes came to rest upon a middle-aged Eleven man, gaunt and slightly pale, dressed in tattered clothes with a scarf tied around his arm.

"Excuse me?" The man spoke again, in stuttering, heavily-accented Britannian. "Speak in Japanese?"

"Yes." Suzaku looked around once, just to be sure the man wasn't addressing someone else; he couldn't be, not when there was no-one else within earshot, and Suzaku switched languages then. "Did you need something?"

"Ah…" The man visibly brightened, and motioned for Suzaku to follow him. "Can you help me, please?"

Suzaku opened his mouth to ask a question, the obvious one, but the man had already turned his back to him. He spared one last glance at the park, and the shadows of swing sets and benches cast by the setting sun, before following at a cautious distance.

The construction site was less-developed on the inside, with most houses lacking insulation on the walls and some merely empty lots with floor plans translated in twine. The site was like a maze, with both of them having to navigate through stray wooden beams and heavy equipment left for the day. He guessed this man must be a day laborer, then, from the way he stepped confidently and seemed to know the place by heart. If he was right, though, Suzaku doubted how well he coped with the demands of that job given his emaciated frame. Perhaps that was why he needed assistance with…whatever this was?

It was just as well, he thought sullenly, glancing at the pre-sale sign in bright colors on one of the houses that was further along. The real estate agent was Britannian, and so was the construction company in charge of this entire project. He wondered whatever happened to the Japanese professionals and local industries, those that seemed to have such a bright future before the invasion tore everything apart.

He watched the nameless construction worker as they weaved through the site: this was the furthest his countrymen could ever hope to reach.

But was it, really? The few Japanese corporations whose heads were allowed to retain at least _some_ form of control were those that had publicly expressed cooperation with Britannia. He supposed his situation wasn't all that different, although perhaps acquiring the Lancelot had more to do with blind luck than grace. It was better than he could have hoped for.

(Then why were Kallen's words still lingering in the back of his mind?)

That train of thought came to an abrupt end when they rounded the corner of yet another unfinished house, and a rough hand closed over his collar and yanked him aside. "What – hey!"

"_Finally_. Took that chick long enough to ditch you."

Suzaku glared at the boy who now had him by the front of his shirt, pressing him up against the wooden scaffolding. He wasn't all that much older than Suzaku himself, and there were three others who appeared behind the adjacent wall. They all seemed to be sporting the same uniform, but it wasn't one he immediately recognized.

"Are you sure he's the right one?" asked the boy who appeared last, wearing a suspicious frown.

"Of course he is. There can't be more than one Eleven at Ashford." The first one let him go then, before turning to the Japanese man and tossing a handful of crumpled bills his way. "Here."

The man counted the money quickly, before launching into a series of profuse thanks in broken Britannian. He didn't look back as he hurried away, and Suzaku finally understood the shaking, the stutter, the scarf around his arm.

'_Do you honestly think everything worked out for the best?'_

"Look." Suzaku would have made a dash for it right then, but two of the boys stood firmly in the way of his only possible exit. He had no idea what he'd done to trigger this, but it probably wouldn't even matter. "Whatever this is about, I – "

"No, we already know plenty." Another boy's lip curled into a snarl as he approached, carrying a short wooden support beam in his hands. "So what was in it for you, huh? Cut of the ransom money?"

Were they serious? "Nothing." Gods, this was _ridiculous_. "Whatever you heard about me, it's not true."

"Little shit thinks we're stupid." The boy in front of him laughed in his face, before placing his hands on Suzaku's chest and roughly shoving him against the scaffold. "Do you?"

Suzaku bared his teeth – that _hurt_ – and let out a snarl. "Let go of me!"

"Hey!"

"Fucking Eleven – !"

It didn't even register until after the fact. There had been a sudden flash of anger – because this really was ridiculous, and it was _unfair_ – and pain, and then Suzaku had grabbed the boy's arms and roughly wrenched them away. He then grabbed the boy's collar with one hand and the waistband of his pants with another, hurling him across the concrete.

"Please stop." Suzaku straightened up despite the little pinpricks of pain shooting up his back – wood splinters, he recognized belatedly, from the scaffolding. Maybe if he intimidated them enough, he could end this. "I'm a trained fighter. I – "

The words died in his throat when he smelled it – cigarette smoke, from seemingly nowhere and everywhere at once.

And all that his mind could come up with in response, as his lips and the rest of his body froze and locked-down in fear, was _gods, not again._

He wondered if it wasn't yet too late, if he could still will it away…but no sooner had that thought (that _hope_) taken form in his mind when he saw the extra silhouette there, heavy and dark against the far wall. Suzaku couldn't see the man's face (he never could) – only a shadow across with the angle entirely wrong, and a cigarette between his lips.

_Cigarette smoke_. Sometimes it would be a pipe, and sometimes a cigar, but it always, inexplicably, smelled the same: a scent that had seeped into their furniture, into those heavy tailored suits, into every last one of his nerves as he stood toe-to-toe with his father that August night.

"No…" Suzaku shrank back and pressed himself against the scaffolding, hard. And although the pain was there, and he was making it _worse_, he realized with a growing horror that it wasn't quite enough to break him out of _this_. "No, get away."

There was something in the man's hand. It wasn't his watch this time, but something just as familiar. Slowly, Suzaku came to realize what it was (and it was odd: Kirihara's voice echoing in his mind this time, from the first time he'd touched the newest addition to the decorations in his father's office – _'…looks simple, yes? They say it once belonged to Hanzo himself…'_) But for the life of him, he couldn't understand how the blade could be pristine, when the handle in the man's fingers was dripping with red.

"Get away!" The boys were laughing at him now, but he couldn't make sense of what they were saying because everything else was a dim, faraway sound; he couldn't even pretend he was talking to _them_ anymore, because he'd already slipped into Japanese. "I didn't…" _Because seven years ago, when the crickets were noisy and the night was clear, a ten-year-old boy stepped into his father's study, bearing a childish entreaty to stop the violence, stop the war; he never even realized he'd picked up the knife –_ "I didn't have a choice!"

When the wooden beam first slammed into his stomach, Suzaku gasped and doubled over in pain.

And yet, a part of him was relieved.

* * *

"And they say I might be exempted from the History final, if I maintain my current class standing."

"Nunnally, that's wonderful." L.L. smiled to match the one gracing Nunnally's features, but he reached over the open book on the table to squeeze her hand so that it would mean something to her. "And at the same time, rather disheartening." He waited a beat, before continuing in a mock-regretful tone: "It would appear as though my services are no longer needed."

"Don't be silly! Before we started, my grades were never as high as they are now." Nunnally's laughter was always a refreshing sound, clear and infectious as it was now. But it died eventually, and gave way to a pensive sigh. "I'm really glad you're okay."

"Ah." L.L. could already see where this conversation was going, and he gently released her hand only to slide a bookmark into the open page and shut the book in front of him. Nunnally was neither stupid nor forgetful, and it was obvious that she cared. This topic was bound to come up eventually then; may as well. "Millay told you?"

"She didn't have to. That day, it was all over the news." She opened her mouth as if to say something more, but faltered. She then lowered her head and folded her arms carefully over her lap, continuing in a murmur. "When I tried to call, and none of you were picking up, I feared the worst."

She had no idea, he thought silently at that. But of course, it was better this way. "Well, we're all right now, and what's past is past. Though I'm truly sorry for all the worry we caused."

"It's nothing compared to what you must have gone through." She shook her head insistently, and furrowed her brows. "You and Suzaku, especially."

L.L. cringed. "Millay told you about _that_, I suppose?"

"She wasn't very happy about it." Nunnally sighed, and a corner of her lips turned up in a tiny smile, as though recalling the exchange. "And I understand. Everyone loves a hero and all, but it's hard when it's someone you care about."

L.L. had to smile at that. For a girl who was all of fourteen years old, Nunnally could often be very mature. What was even more remarkable was that she never seemed to be aware of this herself. "We're fine." He frowned; such a simple response sounded lacking even to his own ears, so he added: "Admittedly a bit roughed-up, and the girls are a little shaken, but it's nothing we won't recover from with time."

She sighed again. "I hope so."

The late-afternoon sunlight filtering in through the open window was warm and subdued, and the long shadows it cast only highlighted the deep lines from the frown on her face. "Nunnally. What's on your mind?"

She didn't say anything for a long time, but her expression stubbornly remained. And then: "Do you know what they're saying about Suzaku in school?"

The troubled way she knit her brows, and the quiet hesitation in her voice, unsettled him more than the words themselves. This was saying much. "What?" he asked carefully.

Nunnally told him. And the initial surprise very quickly gave way to quiet, creeping anger.

"That's absurd." L.L. set his jaw, and clenched his hand into a fist – the one that was free, not the one still holding her hand, because he still had the presence of mind to remember this. "That doesn't even make sense!" It _didn't_. "Don't believe a word of it."

"I don't," she assured him. "Millay and Shirley are trying to stop the rumors, but…" She trailed off, biting on her lower lip. "Do you think this will hurt him?"

"I don't know." He glared darkly at the table, as though that spot could somehow reasonably be a placeholder for all the nameless rumormongers to whom Nunnally had just alluded. "I honestly don't know."

It was a given from the start that the students at Ashford wouldn't warm up to Suzaku immediately. Even if some of them had spent years in the Settlement, they were all brought up with the notion that Britannia was great and all-powerful drilled into their heads, all else be damned. People like Millay and Shirley and Nunnally were the exceptions, not the rule. Still, he hadn't quite expected it would be this bad. And while he was certain (or rather, he wanted to believe, at least) that these perpetrators most likely were small in number themselves, he would have thought the children of nobles and statesmen would have been raised better than this.

"I'm sorry if I've upset you."

There was a quiet sadness in Nunnally's voice when she broke into his thoughts, so he squeezed her hand reassuringly. "It's fine." He smiled, and the anger abated a little. "It's not your fault. And I do appreciate that you told me."

"I thought you'd want to know." She paused, and he was about to tell her she was right. But then she brightened and spoke again before he could get the chance. "You and Suzaku have become very close, haven't you?"

L.L. kept his smile, but couldn't stop his brows from knotting into a curious frown. That was…certainly true, he conceded to himself. He enjoyed Suzaku's company, in spite of how he still found some aspects of the boy fascinatingly strange. He was sure _that_ was mutual, but he was no longer quite as sure if curiosity was what kept them together. In any case, whatever they had now, it had progressed quite a lot since the day he first met the soldier at Shinjuku. "What makes you say that?"

"Nothing. Just a feeling." He didn't have to wait long before Nunnally lost her poker face completely, bursting into a giggle. "And Millay said as much, as well."

"We've been through this." L.L. rolled his eyes. "Everything your sister says about me is a lie."

"That's cruel!" Nunnally exclaimed, feigning offense. "She's called you handsome, you know? Are you saying that was a lie?"

"Ah. That's an opinion." He smirked. "It can't be false, but it can't be true, either."

"Oh, now you're just arguing the details!"

"But of course." L.L. joined in Nunnally's laughter, briefly forgetting all about rumors and racists and terrorists and _Suzaku_, the unspoken question whose unspoken answer eluded him. There would be time for that later, he dismissed; that wasn't what he was here for, today. "And on that note," he chuckled, re-opening the book and flipping several pages, "shall we revisit the Pacific War?"

* * *

Paperwork was always tedious and boring. Most of it was just formality anyway, and would be processed whether or not it had the Sub-Viceroy's signature at the bottom. Euphemia sighed, yet another twenty-pager finished for the day. There were five more of its kind to go.

"What is it, Euphy?"

"Oh, nothing!" She shook herself out of it and brightened. "Nothing."

Perhaps it was hard to be convincing when Cornelia was sitting at the massive desk just opposite hers, having already finished her share of the work. Had she been dallying that long? Euphemia threw glance at the clock and blinked.

Was _that _the time?

She winced a little, guiltily. But it was just so hard to concentrate when her mind kept on _drifting_.

"Well I was just wondering…" Cornelia fixed her with a solid gaze that said '_go on_,' which was when she realized she really couldn't hide anything from her older sister. Perhaps it was a good thing she didn't try, then. "If I wanted to arrange for an audience with someone, would that be a problem?"

"Who? Someone from the homeland?"

"No, from here." She shook her head, and she desperately hoped Cornelia wouldn't ask any more questions when she expounded: "A citizen, actually."

"…I don't see any reason you can't." Cornelia's frown was thoughtful, but it didn't seem as though she found the request as odd as Euphemia would have expected her to. "Even if you don't strictly hold any executive power in this Area, as a member of royalty it's your prerogative to summon anyone you wish."

"I see."

Cornelia looked at her, and her frown deepened for a few seconds before she asked, "Do you have a name?"

She thought of him again, the Japanese boy who'd stood up and sacrificed himself for the young girl who was being carried away, the boy with the unruly hair and striking eyes – much more striking then than those she'd seen in his mugshot, attached to one of the many reports she'd reviewed on her first day as Sub-Viceroy. And… "I'm afraid that's all I have."

Cornelia shrugged. "It's more than enough," she said, and everything was so much easier after that.

* * *

L.L. stopped trying to reach Suzaku at around nine p.m.

He'd tried not to think too much about it when two text messages, both containing the usual invitations to dinner, went unanswered. He'd assumed the boy must have been busy with something or another – schoolwork perhaps, or overtime at A.S.E.E.C. So he would have understood a refusal, but he didn't even get _that_ much.

It was odd. Suzaku had never been one to forego a reply, if only out of courtesy, and no matter how late.

Still, there were more important things, L.L. convinced himself, and it wasn't as though he wouldn't survive dinner alone, for a change. But those 'more important' things – a practice essay Nunnally had written, and yet another attempt to make sense of the hoteljacking campaign – had all been pushed aside fairly quickly as well. And so had dinner, a half-finished plate of leftover pasta and a rapidly warming glass of champagne, forgotten on the kitchen counter.

_Everything_ took a backseat when he got that email.

It came from out of nowhere, popping up in the middle of his work: a short message with a handle that made it clear that its sender had used a dummy account. He skimmed quickly through the perfect Japanese, the overly-familiar tone, and something in his stomach turned at the end of the first paragraph.

His very first contractee – also, the _last _one remaining – was apparently back in Area 11.

'_I've missed you' _was how the email ended, instead of a proper signature or even a name. Neither was needed.

And then, scarcely a minute later, he got another email from yet another dummy account, containing only this: _'I'll find you.'_

L.L.'s finger lingered over the 'Delete' key twice, and twice he ended up swearing as he closed the browser, holding his head in his hands.

This was not happening.

"I know exactly what he wants," he snapped irritably, yet another of C.C.'s comments getting to him more than it should. He knew she wasn't trying to get a rise out of him, not deliberately anyway, but she was merely stating the obvious.

She was merely stating something he'd hoped he would never have to address.

Nunnally's essay and a command-line window that had long since expired remained minimized as he furiously scoured four different news sites. He wasn't sure why he was even bothering, though – that very first Geass he'd granted, arguably his most powerful one, could be used in an infinite number of ways. Doing this was just about as useful as groping blindly through the dark.

But then…

"He hasn't been using it," he quipped aloud, eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "No, he mustn't have, because…I would have sensed it if he did, right?"

Yet he hadn't sensed runaway from Nagoya. C.C.'s blunt response only confirmed this: if he sensed anything from this contractee, it would only be because he was already in Tokyo.

L.L. sighed, scrolling blindly through the 'breaking news' section. He closed that and returned to one of the emails, trying to extract any information he could get.

Everything was encrypted. Several layers of this later, he was re-routed to a server in Russia.

He couldn't help a wry smirk at that. L.L. had taught him well, it seemed, and now all that was being used against him.

"In all honesty, I'm surprised he's still even alive," he murmured. And C.C. didn't reply to that, not when there were so many ways she could have.

L.L. steepled his fingers together and eyed the timestamp on the email. _'I'll find you.'_ He needed to think.

Things would become complicated if this contractee found him. He could leave Area 11, but it would be difficult not to leave a trail, and how would he explain it to Nunnally, to Millay? And after all, he was immune to the Geass, wasn't he? If worse came to worst, if L.L. could bait him to use his Geass repeatedly until runaway…

He shuddered, wondering where such a chilling thought had come from.

When his phone suddenly vibrated, on the table beside him, his heart leapt into his throat and he actually jumped a little, swearing violently. He let it ring for a few more times, reaching out and waiting for the unknown number or, worse, '_Number Withheld_', and that would clearly be _check_.

But to his surprise, relief, and confusion all at once, the display only said '_Suzaku_'. "Hello?"

"…_L.L."_ It seemed to take forever for Suzaku to respond, but his voice was unmistakable, if not a bit faint. _"I'm…I'm sorry I couldn't make dinner tonight. I tried – "_

"That's fine," he cut in, adding a short laugh to soften the interruption. "I assumed you were busy. It's okay. We'll take a rain-check. How about tomorrow night?"

He had the phone sandwiched between his shoulder and ear at this point, and was in the middle of trying to trace the other email when he frowned, noticing that Suzaku hadn't said anything for quite a while.

"Still there?" he prodded.

"_Yeah…"_ L.L. could barely hear him; was there something wrong with the reception? _"That would be…nice…"_

He frowned, momentarily forgetting about the email when he realized Suzaku was _still_ on the line, and yet all he could hear was the boy's breathing. That was odd. He could barely hear his voice, but this… "Suzaku. Did you need anything?" he asked, taking the phone in hand.

"_L.L."_ He supposed what followed that was a sigh, but it sounded shaky. _"I'm sorry."_

He shook his head, more for his own benefit. "You already said that. I told you, it's fine."

"_No. I'm sorry for what I'm about to ask." _

L.L. wasn't sure why that last part had suddenly been so clear. He was even less sure of why, upon letting those words sink in, the earlier dread returned and somehow seemed to be worse. "Suzaku," he said carefully, rising to his feet. "Where are you?"

He got no reply other than a series of soft knocks on his door.

With C.C. silent and the emails from his contractee completely forgotten, L.L. stepped away from his computer. The walk from his desk to the door wasn't a very long one, but it seemed that way now, and the closer he got to it the more he quickened his pace.

He pulled open the door with his free hand.

And when he saw Suzaku standing there, he very nearly dropped his phone.

"I'm sorry," Suzaku mumbled again, still speaking into his phone. His hair was a _mess_ and it obscured his eyes, and L.L. finally understood why he could barely hear him over the phone; he could barely hear him _now_. "Can…can I stay here tonight?"

* * *

Notes for Chapter 9:

- I couldn't resist the urge to slip at least _one_ Kallen-fanservice moment into this fic. No disrespect meant, of course, just poking a bit of fun at canon!

- I must have spent close to two weeks frozen on the solo!Suzaku scene here, debating on whether or not he would 'fall for it,' so to speak. The decision wasn't easy (at _all_), and a different answer would have taken this chapter in a radically different direction. Anyway, for those who are curious, the other route would have been: not entering the construction site, not missing dinner with L.L., being _distracted_ all the while and recounting the conversation with Kallen when L.L. calls him out on it. In short – more talking, less bleeding.

- Root cause of all of Suzaku's random moments of borderline-insanity in this universe: soon. I promise.

**Allora Gale, Silencian, fra, Melamori, AngelicDemon97, Drakyndra, GreenOnBlack, , nachan, Persephone1, Seriyuu, MithLuin, Mystra-chan06, doodle808, Thisismedealwithit, Hane no Zaia, Eien-Kiseki, P, Aozora094, plummy-kins, cherubchan, darksilverrose, Slyshin, slivershell, Reborn-euphoria, icestar-comet-moon, warmsugar, Khandalis, FeatherxxDreams, GoldenKitsuneHime13, Xivy, croquant,** and **OolashaSylvanas** – thanks so much for reviewing! You guys are awesomely-awesome and I love you all. I'm a bit pressed for time as of me typing this, so regretfully review-responses will be up a little later, sometime this week :D. I'm very sorry about that. (I'm also thinking of doing review-replies by PM from now on, so if anyone has any objections to that, let me know!)

To put it shortly, this chapter took a long time to write mostly because school has been rather cruel over these past months (don't let the frequent _Noir_ updates fool you; that fic is just my guilty pleasure, and it's so much easier to write than this longfic). On the bright side, there does seem to be a finish line in sight, and I hope to submit my thesis by mid-summer. Keeping my fingers crossed!

Anyway, I'll admit some parts of this chapter gave me a really hard time as well. I do hope it turned out okay, though. Let me know what you think, and you get an internet cookie for doing so :D. Yay!

Next chapter: Cruelty and kindness are two sides of the same coin. What matters is not the intention but the _perception_, and when one pushes kindness too far he may wind up getting back more than he bargained for. (_Stage 10: Those Who Mend_)


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